Gemma Halliday - Scandal Sheet

LAST NIGHT THE INFORMER CAUGHT EVERYONES FAVORITE TEEN ACTRESS, JENNIFER WOOD, AT THE HOLLYWOOD MARTINI ROOM WITH A MEMBER OF A BOY BAND IN ONE HAND AND MARY JANE IN THE OTHER

Shit!

Tina!

I swiveled in my chair to face my boss, Felix Dunn, standing in the doorway to his office, hands on hips.

What?

Swear Pig.

I pursed my lips. That doesnt count.

I just heard you say shit.

It was computer related. Everyone knows computer-related swearing doesnt count.

He narrowed his eyes. Clearly my argument wasnt cutting it.

Its your own fault, you know, I protested, changing tactics. Id been typing up a juicy tidbit about the It teen actress, whod been caught with a joint in her hand at last nights after-party, when my backspace button stuck, taking out one very cleverly worded line, even if I did say so myself. I mean, how many centuries old are these things anyway? I went on. Would it kill you to buy some new hardware once in a while?

He shook his head. Swear Pig, Bender, he repeated, then disappeared back into his office.

Shit.

I heard that!

I stuck my tongue out at his door and dropped two quarters into the purple piggy bank on my desk. Somehow our newly appointed editor in chief was under the impression that yours truly swore too much. I have no fucking idea where he got that impression. But hed set up the Swear Pig as a way to break my bad habit. Personally, I was fine with my bad habit. Its not like I was shooting heroin or anything.

Which brought me back to my story.

I swiveled around, pushing my glasses back up onto my nose, and put my fingers to the keyboard, re-creating my perfect line.

IT MAY BE ONE JOINT TODAY FOR OUR FAVORITE FAIR-HAIRED TEENYBOPPER, BUT WITH THE WAY HER LIFE IS SPIRALING OUT OF CONTROL, CAN COCAINE, METH, OR EVEN HEROIN BE FAR BEHIND? HOW MANY BLONDES DOES IT TAKE TO SPELL REHAB?

I sat back in my chair, surveying my work. Okay, so it was a little mean. And the truth was Wood claimed someone had thrust the stinky cigarette into her hand just before the paparazzi flashbulbs went off, after which shed promptly thrown it out. But, seriously, she played a perky cheerleader in a tween cable show. This was tabloid gold.

I hit send, letting my daily gossip column zip through the L.A. Informers network to Felixs inbox, then gave my knuckles a satisfying crack.

I glanced at the clock. Quitting time. And somewhere there was a big beefy burrito dinner with my name on it. I grabbed my Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox that doubled as my purse and made for the exit.

Unfortunately, not before Eagle Eyes Dunn could catch me.

Bender?

I thought a dirty word and turned around to find him leaning against his office doorframe. Did you want something, chief?

You finish up that Wood piece yet? he asked.

Just emailed it to you. I loved it when I was one step ahead of the boss.

What about Pines?

Pines?

Edward Pines was the director whod recently been arrested when police found a stack of pornography under the seat of his car during a routine traffic stop. Not that naked bodies were a novelty in Hollywood, but these particular magazines had included photos of thirteen-year-old boys in the buff. I dont care how much his last action pic grossed, that guy was total Hollywood roadkill now.

What about him? I asked.

Being arraigned today. Its your story, right?

Damned straight. My headline the morning after Pines arrest had read: PINES PINES AFTER PINTSIZED PRETEENS. What can I say? I have a thing for alliteration.

But as much as I was relishing the story, I wasnt thrilled with the timing.

Hes being arraigned now? My stomach growled. Its dinnertime.

The news waits for no one, love. Cams meeting you at the courthouse, he said, ducking back into his office.

So much for my burrito. Shit.

Bender

I know, I know. I reached into Strawberry Shortcake, pulled out another quarter, and dropped it into the ceramic pig on my way out.

At this rate, Id be broke by Christmas.

The Beverly Hills courthouse was located on Burton, just a block south of Santa Monica. An unimpressive building, it had a sixties glass-and-concrete esthetic going on that made me think of a Doris Day movie. Totally outdated, totally utilitarian, totally at odds with the rows of Jags and Beemers in the parking lot.

I slipped my Honda Rebel into a space near the entrance. Yep, thats right, I ride a motorcycle. A bitchin hot pink motorcycle. With yellow flames. Ill admit, it was no Harley, but for a gal my size, five foot three on a good day, it fit just right. And with L.A. gas prices shooting through the roof, it was the only way I could afford my rent and my regular Swear Pig deposits.

I pulled off my helmet, locked it to the handlebars with a metal chain, and shook out my hair. Luckily when your hair is as stick straight as mine, helmet head isnt much of a problem. I gave it a good fluff and felt the shag cut fall back into place. Currently it was auburn with deep purple highlights. Though Ive been through so many shades in my lifetime, Im not even really sure what my natural color is anymore.

I grabbed Strawberry Shortcake and made my way inside, the cool air-conditioning a sharp contrast to the heat outside. Even in fall, the temp in So. Cal never goes much below seventy, and this week we seemed to be hitting Indian summer in spades. After sending my purse through the conveyor belt and stepping through a pair of metal detectors, I made my way up to the second floor where Pines was scheduled to be arraigned.

A towering blonde in jeans and sneakers, holding a big, black Nikon, leaned against the drinking fountain outside the room.

Hey, Tina, she said, raising a hand in greeting.

I see Felix gave you late shift, too, huh? I said, gesturing to her camera.

She nodded. Caught me in the middle of the dinner rush at Mr. Chow. And Britney had reservations today, too.

Cameron Dakota was the Informers only full-time photographer. Most of the time Felix found it cheaper to pay freelancers by the picture, but Cameron had a knack for not only capturing celebs with their pants down (literally, if she was lucky) but also providing clear, quality shots that kept readers coming back time and time again to the Informers pages. And, oddly enough, she actually seemed to enjoy being stuck on Brit watch. Personally, if I had to follow Hollywood half-wits to Starbucks every day, Id shoot myself.

Lucky for me, I only had to cover them in court.

Pines in there yet? I asked, gesturing to the large oak doors.

Cam shook her head, long blonde hair whipping at her cheeks. Hes up next. Right now hes in the room next door with his lawyers. No cameras allowed in the courtroom, so Im waiting for a walk-of-shame shot. She gave me a wink.

Go get em, tiger.

I pushed through the doors and slipped into the back of the courtroom.

Contrary to the world of L.A. Law, there was nothing glamorous, sexy, or exciting about sitting in L.A. County Court. The rooms were squat, square boxes filled with metal-framed tables, hard wooden chairs, and depressingly beige walls. Think DMV dcor. Only worse. Since this was only an arraignment, no jury was present, just a bunch of people sitting in the gallery, family members whod likely be putting up bail for the various guys in orange jumpsuits being paraded through the room. Currently up was a guy with earrings the size of nickels stuck in his ears, apparently pleading no contest to a drug possession charge.