Accusation

  Also by Paul Batista

  The Raquel Rematti Legal Thrillers

  The Borzoi Killings

  The Warriors

  Stand-Alone Novels

  Death’s Witness

  Extraordinary Rendition

  Manhattan Lockdown

  Copyright © 2022 by Paul Batista

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-60809-474-5

  Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing

  Sarasota, Florida

  www.oceanviewpub.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  For Hazel Batista, Nelson Batista, and Alma Batista

  CHAPTER ONE

  AARON JULIAN REACHED for the cell phone on the table by his bed. 2:00 am was distinctly displayed on the clean face of the sleek instrument’s screen. Nothing good ever comes from a call at two in the morning. The phone was on mute, but the deep vibration was intense enough to awaken him.

  Below the lettering that gave the time flashed the name Lawrence Jenkins. He was Aaron’s manager and publicist, as well as his friend. Larry had a tendency to call too often, an understandable flaw since Aaron was by far his most famous client and Aaron’s career as an actor over the last decade had been such an extraordinary success that Aaron often marveled at his great good fortune. That good fortune had also made Larry Jenkins wealthy. Larry was frequently the bearer of exceptional news but had never called at two in the morning despite the prevailing craziness of his lifestyle.

  Aaron, whispering so that he wouldn’t waken his soundly sleeping wife, Veda, said, “Larry, Christ, do you know what time it is?”

  “Two. And my night is just starting to get interesting.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At Julius.’”

  Julius’ was a gay bar on Waverly Place in Greenwich Village directly across the narrow cobblestone street from the classic, Parisian-style Three Lives Book Store. Julius’ had become far more popular with gay men and women and LGBTQ people than the Stonewall Inn, now essentially an officially landmarked tourist attraction three blocks away.

  “Is that why you called? Aren’t all your nights interesting?” Aaron asked. “By the way, have you ever met anyone named Julius?”

  “Only Julius Caesar. He’s sitting next to me, in his toga and laurel crown.”

  Aaron laughed quietly. “Larry, these dazzling urban banters we have are great in the afternoon. But not at two in the morning.”

  “Actually, Aaron, I’m not calling you now for the usual scintillating repartee.”

  Despite the words Larry used, there was an uncharacteristic urgency in his tone of voice. Ordinarily not an anxious man—in fact, Aaron Julian was a happy and graceful man grateful for the blessings lavished on him—he stood up from the bed. He glanced at the beautiful face of his wife. He walked noiselessly to one of the big windows of their apartment in the legendary Dakota apartment building overlooking the empty intersection of West 72nd Street and Central Park West. Beyond the intersection was the faintly illuminated, curving walkway that gently rose into the wintry darkness of Central Park. Veda never stirred; she was a sound sleeper.

  At the window, with the cell phone pressed tightly to his left ear, Aaron could hear Larry’s distinctive Brooklyn accent as he said, “Aaron, buddy, did I lose you? Say something.”

  “No,” Aaron said quietly. “You didn’t lose me. Veda’s asleep. I don’t want to wake her. She’s singing at the Beacon tonight. Sold-out crowd, as usual. She does better with rest. We all do, except you, Larry.”

  Sounding uncharacteristically serious, Larry said, amid the sound of carnival voices in the background, “Does the name Rita Carmichael ring any bells for you?”

  “Rita Carmichael?” Aaron paused, silently surveying in his mind’s eye the names of the many women he had known over the years before he met his beloved Veda. He vaguely recalled some of the women’s names, but not the bland name Rita Carmichael.

  Aaron said, “Rita Carmichael? No, that name doesn’t mean anything to me. Why do you ask?”

  “How about Alyssa Cohen?”

  “Look, Larry, it’s late. I’ve lived in New York since I left Puerto Rico when I was nine. Alyssa Cohen is a pretty common name here. There must be three hundred Alyssa Cohens in Manhattan alone.”

  Larry, usually a blazing talker, went quiet. In that interval, Aaron, increasingly disturbed by the unexplained questions, stared out at the intersection. Outside, materializing as if from nowhere, was an exotically tall and slender woman walking a very gray Great Dane. There was a glow of light, more intense than the street lights, that always illuminated the front gate of the Dakota. Aaron could never pass through that ornate gate, nor look at it from his apartment six stories above, without recalling that the gate at the once-unguarded entryway to the Dakota was the place where, decades earlier, John Lennon had been killed. Now, and for all the years since that senseless murder, private armed security guards were always on duty.

  Finally, Aaron said, “Listen, Larry, you woke me at two from a wonderful sleep next to the most beautiful woman in the world. I love you but I can tell you that your habits are getting odder as you get older. Funnier, yes, but odder. I need to get back into my warm bed. And you can, if you wish, find out what’s under Julius Caesar’s toga.”

  “Listen to me, Aaron, and carefully. Those are the names of only two of the six women who told the New York Post that you sexually harassed them and prevented them from having better roles, or even any roles at all, in your films.”

  Aaron Julian, always naked when he slept and naked now as he stood at the window, felt a sudden deep shiver, as if the solid window had cracked open and an icy winter wind had enveloped him.

  “What?” Aaron asked. “Say that again.”

  “Six women claim that you used your power and influence either to promote their careers or hinder them. And even to ruin them.”

  “Have you been using coke again, Larry? Did you stop going to your AA meetings? This is not funny.”

  “Keep listening to me, Aaron. Today’s Post just went online. It’s the front-page story. They’re all clients of that lawyer who represented the women who brought down Lauer, Ailes, Charlie Rose, O’Reilly, all of the once-mighty fallen. He’s a headhunter, a trophy collector, the same lawyer who a few years ago got himself a big name and lots of money by bringing those sex abuse cases against priests. He made the Catholic Church roll over. Obviously, he’s decided to develop a new expertise.”

  Aaron Julian looked away from the wintry streets to the bed where his wife slept. “This can’t be happening,” he said.

  “No? If you don’t believe me, google yourself right now. You’ll see the top story—it’s about you. The Post story has already been picked up by BuzzFeed and the Huffington Post, even NPR and the fuckin’ BBC if you can believe that. The women and their lawyer say you are a sexual predator once picked by People as one of the ten sexiest men in the world but that you have the instincts of the ugly Harvey Weinstein.”

  “Larry, now you please listen to me. This is beyond belief. That is not something I have ever done to anyone, ever. I never put a hand on any woman who didn’t want my hand on her. Or said anything she would not want to hear. And no one ever asks me who the other actors in my movies should be or what roles they should or shouldn’t have. I act with any man or woman the directors and producers put in any role.”

  “What,” Larry asked, “in the name of Jesus H. Christ makes you think that matters? So far, nobody is claiming you sexually harassed Jesus H.”

  Staring again from the window at the frozen streets and sidewalks edged with dirty snow, Aaron said nothing. The tall, enigmatic woman who had been walking the Great Dane had vanished. Aaron, who often roamed through his neighborhood and frequently ran in Central Park as if he were an ordinary Manhattan runner, had never seen the distinctive woman or the otherworldly dog before. Now he wondered whether the woman and the exotic dog were phantoms, or omens.

  Larry said into the silence, “Aaron, I have some advice for you and some more news that just flashed on my phone. First, turn your cell off. Every reporter in the world on the graveyard shift must be trying to reach you. Don’t talk to anyone until I can get you to a lawyer in the morning. And the second thing: the vulture lawyer and two of the six women will be live on-air on CNN this morning at seven in order, as they say, to come forward after many years and speak their truth to power, as they also always say.”

  Larry became uncharacteristically silent again; his sentences usually ran into one another, he was always voluble, and he was fun-loving.

  Aaron asked, “Is there any other happy news you want to give me now?”

  Larry said, “Only this. Your life has changed, Aaron. It will never be the same again.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  ALTHOUGH DEEPLY UNSETTLED, Aaron Julian managed, by embracing his warm wife, to fall asleep again for four hours before Veda stirred awake, as she always did when the first gray light of dawn repla
ced the black night at the windows. Those high windows faced east, in the direction of Central Park, the rising sun filtering through the spring, summer, and autumn leaves or, as now, on bare skeletal winter branches.

  Slender but voluptuous, Veda, who used only that name as a performer, was Aaron’s third wife, and he loved her profoundly. So intensely, in fact, that even after three years of marriage they made love every morning and evening they were together. The attraction was mutual. It was instinctive. It was naturally overpowering.

  Veda pressed her glorious black body against her husband. The embrace was full since Veda was almost the same height as Aaron. They were both tall, regal. She moved her lips toward his, kissing him.

  In seconds, she detected no reaction from him. She whispered, “What’s the matter, baby? Does mama’s little boy have a little fever this morning?”

  Even in their most private moments, Veda spoke in that distinctive singer’s voice that had propelled her into the rarefied realms of one of the most celebrated pop singers in the world.

  Her face was perfect: high cheekbones, large brown eyes, sleek and shapely forehead, flawless teeth, and the beauty of her glorious blackness.

  Although they were often apart for weeks at a time when he was on a movie set or she was on tour, he never forgot her. Without embarrassment, with absolute sincerity, he often told her, “I really have only one ambition in life, and that’s to make you even happier than you are.”

  Veda had a storybook life. The daughter of a Baptist minister in Newark, she as a child learned to sing in the church choir. At sixteen, she became a background singer in what turned out to be the last stage of Whitney Houston’s career. Not long after that, she evolved into a solo, world-famous performer known only as Veda and not as Veda Simmons, Pastor Simmons’ youngest and once shy daughter.

  And now, on this cold mid-January morning that should have been like the hundreds they had spent together, Aaron Julian knew he would have to say words that were bound to hurt her. “Sweetheart,” he whispered as they embraced on the sleep-warmed bed, “Larry called at two this morning.”

  Veda rolled her eyes. “Don’t cokeheads ever sleep?”

  “It wasn’t about coke.”

  “Don’t tell me,” she said, “that he has a new boy toy? And you needed to know that at two in the morning?”

  He buried his head near her fragrant hair and ear, saying, quietly, “This morning’s Post has a front-page story claiming that for years I’ve harassed women to get them better roles, or lesser roles, or no roles, in my movies.”

  Veda quickly sat up in the bed, her long legs folded lotus style. She stared at him as he continued to stretch out, still naked, on his left side.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me, baby?”

  “Larry says they are all represented by that celebrity-hound lawyer who sued the Catholic Church for sex abuse by priests.”

  “Come on, you know that’s not what I’m asking.”

  “Never, never. I never cared who the actresses in my films were. The producers and directors just told me, and I did my best to work with any woman assigned to any role, big or small. And if you want to talk about sex harassment, I was the one who was touched first. You touched me first, remember?”

  She rolled her eyes, laughing. “Somebody had to get this started. You were very shy for such a hunk.”

  Veda rose from the bed and walked to the bathroom. Like Aaron, she slept without clothes. He watched her as she moved so gracefully, so noiselessly, so perfectly formed, across the carpeted floor.

  She left the bathroom door open. They were an entirely intimate couple. They never closed doors; they never hid anything from each other. He had often thought they were like Adam and Eve before the fall: heedless of each other’s nakedness no matter what they were doing.

  Unlike her husband, Veda never slept with her cell phone nearby. Instead, she kept it on a countertop in the bathroom attached to its charger and on mute. As usual, she turned it on only when her day started.

  Even as Aaron continued to lie in bed, he heard Veda say after her phone chimed to signal that it was on, “The vultures are already flying around, Aaron. I must have ten emails telling me to turn on CNN at seven. Victor Tabnik, the lawyer, and two of the six women are going to be interviewed live by Wolf Blitzer. They won’t be there to talk about Einstein’s theory of relativity. Do you want to watch?”

  Aaron rose from the bed and walked into the bathroom where Veda stood at the burnished sink as she brushed her teeth and washed her face. Naked, Aaron stood over the toilet seven feet away from her, now in full sight of her. He was too tense, his mind too focused on the question of what he would see and hear in five minutes on CNN to begin urinating.

  During the long wait, Veda said, “Try to relax, baby. You’re afraid.”

  “I am.”

  “Just look at me and breathe deeply.”

  He did, and the stream began. His wife knew him so well.

  “It’s time,” she said, “to get into bed and turn on the television.”

  He asked, “Are you sure you want to do that?”

  “Like it or not,” she said, “we have to get a grip on this. You’re not alone, baby. Remember, I’m your wife.”

  Aaron stepped next to her at the sink and washed his hands. He then gently took her wrist and led her into the bedroom where they lay down on the bed. Continuing to hold Veda’s wrist, Aaron, with his left hand, took the remote wand from the night table and brought the large television screen to life, pressing the digits for CNN.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AARON AND HIS wife, both silent, waited for a series of commercials to end before Wolf Blitzer appeared on the screen. Veda as she waited covered herself with a cotton sheet. This was unusual for her. Raised in a tenement building on Raymond Boulevard in Newark, she was ordinarily indifferent to cold air.

  Before the scene on the television screen broadened to encompass other people, Blitzer spoke: “Our lead news this morning is that yet another celebrity has joined the ranks of politicians, producers, television anchors, and Presidents accused of sexual harassment as the consequences of the #MeToo movement continue to roll on and on.”

  The scene then expanded to a man in a pale blue suit seated between two attractive, but grim-faced women. Blitzer continued: “Aaron Julian, a twice-nominated Academy Award actor, is now the newest and possibly best-known man at the center of the controversy sweeping the nation. With us this morning are two of six women who have now come forward and named Julian, as the New York Post this morning broke the story, a sexual predator. We have two of the women—Janine Ujamma and Andrea Forbes—and their attorney, Victor Tabnik.”

  Without waiting for a question from Blitzer, Tabnik, whose name was displayed on the screen next to the CNN logo and the words Women Accusing Aaron Julian of Sexual Harassment, said, “Thank you, Wolf. We have all learned that sexual harassment, as evidenced by Harvey Weinstein’s years of unchecked and criminal sex abuse, has been the deep dark side of the entertainment industry we all enjoy.”

  Blitzer asked, “Are you saying that Aaron Julian is the handsome equivalent of Harvey Weinstein?”

  Tabnik, skillful, strangely compelling although homely, and experienced with television interviews, answered: “That’s beside the point. The point is that sexual predators—the men with power and despicable instincts and atrocious conduct no matter how attractive they may be on the surface—aren’t in the secure and secret confines of producers’ offices in movie and television executive suites. The abuse extends to influential actors, most notoriously Aaron Julian, who have the star power to advance or suppress the roles and careers of women who are under consideration for acting in their movies.”

  “How,” Blitzer asked, “does Aaron Julian have this power?”

  “Follow the money, Wolf. Aaron Julian commands fees of as much as $25 million for each movie. Money drives power, power follows money. And producers and executives in the entertainment industry are all too willing to respond to the wishes of mega stars like Mr. Julian.”

  Blitzer interjected: “All right, we have with Mr. Tabnik two of the six actresses who are now the accusers of Aaron Julian. They have agreed to come forward, by name, and tell their stories.”