Even though the buildings are mid-1940s, the interiors are an amalgamation of all of the worst trends in office interior design.The doors are solid wood, as are the podiums for judges and witnesses, and are well polished. They shine in the florescent light at a specific 90 degree angle, and its only when the judge flicks on her reading light, which appears to be halogen, can one see it’s the grime of 30 years of weeping witnesses, hand grease, and worn epoxy fixes.
Room 736, on the seventh floor of the Los Angeles County Courthouse building is roughly 1700 comfortable feet of judicial space. I arrived just after 9AM to collect, complete, and file my own paperwork. Judge Boas presides here over domestic violence, stalking, and other cases that require restraining orders. A list to the right of the door outlines the day’s workload. As I scan the list for my case name, I see Nicole Richie, et al, vs. Arrivabene et al : 1:30 pm.
I look again. Nicole Richie’s case is being heard before my own.
Before I can think my judgemental thoughts about the plight of our celebrity wildlife, the clicking of my pen on the ground catches my attention. As I pick it up, I look at the cherry red gaffing tape that extends to where my pen met the ground across 30 feet of yellowed multicolor flooring. Above it is a sign: All Cameras MUST face West Wall, away from courtrooms.
I grab my pen, and grit my teeth. Is it feeding time at the zoo? I assume that my case will be delayed for at least a few hours. I walk the 7 blocks to the Garment District for lunch and research, hoping as I walk back just after 1:30 that the Richie hearing has ended. I reach for my Chap-Stick and anti-shine powder as I return to the courthouse, secretly hoping perhaps that the hearing is over, and I’m asked for commentary.
As I take the escalator from the 6th to the 7th floor, I notice the lack of activity in the hallway just above me. Am I late? Or have they ordered everyone out, as if this were merely a Starbucks that these celebrities have chosen to imperiously visit? I secretly hope that either or both of these scenarios play themselves out, because the papers I am about to file with the court are not papers I want to file at all. In fact, I want to run. I want to cut and run so badly as the escalator delivers me to the 7th floor, and a legal consultant for a TV newschannel briskly taps my elbow and asks me if I am Nicole Richie’s assistant.
“Why do you ask?” I’m not skeptical. I’ve met both Nicole Richie and her assistant before on several occasions, usually at house parties. I look nothing like her assistant at all.
“This isn’t you?” She points out someone on the screen of her Blackberry. It’s not me in the slightest.
“No. I’m sorry.” She looks me in the eye, still holding my elbow in one hand, her phone in the other, completely obstructing my freedom of movement. The idea of providing commentary just a moment prior had been washed cleanly away by the desperation involved on the part of the person who’s supposed to be getting that commentary. She’s still looking at me to do something, maybe give her a lead. “Good luck with your story. I gotta go.”
We part ways. She scrambles from courtroom door to courtroom door, inspecting each of the legal line sheets for the Richie case. I should have sold her the courtroom number for $20. The thought chills me for a moment, that I would try to extract money from someone humbly going about their day. For $20, I know she’d have paid it to make it to the right room on time, and get a several thousand dollar bump in getting details to her editor quickly. I also know that the impending hubbub of the trial will out me as an opportunist for even thinking of doing that.
Room 736 is closed. I sit on a bench and wait my turn. Suddenly, I see the freshly shaven mug of Mark Geragos, lawyer to the stars, float above me and into the courtroom. The Bailiff unlocks the courtroom door and says anyone who wants to come in can fill the 25 seats inside. I take a seat to the right. Seeing this case carry on before me is a good thing for my own case, particularly because Mark Geragos is an excellent lawyer who rarely appears for such small cases like restraining orders.
I notice behind me the two men, dressed as caterers, and a tall Brazilian woman with dark features that I had briefly seen in the hallway before going inside. They’re sitting behind me speaking portugese.
The bailiff and court staff have us all rise to salute the flag in this hall of justice. Nicole and Joel Madden are already present. Nicole turns to face the audience. She looks over and I look at her just as her eyes lock in vague recognition of my face. I look at the judge and hope she doesn’t remember the house party 4 years ago that we attended as guests of mutual friends. I hope she doesn’t think I’m going to sell out the story about this court proceeding. I hope she doesn’t remember me, at least, not under these circumstances.
What happened at the hearing might be different than what tabloids report. Nicole Richie and Joel Madded did testify to the judge that the two are indeed married about 20 minutes apart during different parts of the Judge’s questioning. Tabloids won’t tell their audiences about the paparazzo intentionally hitting her vehicle in order to take pictures, or that her children were in the car, or that Joel Madden appeared ready to either weep silently or ready to punch both offenders out. Tabloids won’t show the additional legal staff present and interrupting the hearing throughout; Geragos’ portugese-speaking blonde cell-phone-picture watchdog who busted the girlfriend of the paparazzo taking snaps of the hearing, the stenographers who typed every word said, or what appeared to be Geragos’ newbie assistant having an asthma attack.
Judge Boas put it nicely; “I need to balance the needs of Ms. Richie against your needs to maintain your livelihood.” Judge Boas ascertained, and explained again to the two paps, that although they do make a living off of celebrity photos, they make a living off of ALL celebrity photos that they take, and that they could easily make money from other photos without having to follow Richie around all day. As this was the case, the paps were subject to the terms of the restraining order now granted by the court.
This is a lopsided victory. Though Team Richie has prevailed, these are but two of hundreds of paparazzo in the world that photograph her life. They have prevailed only after the potentially deadly encounter, and only after the paps have made their money. Paparazzo who aren’t even interested in her or her husband as people, but merely as objects of entertainment for which they have an incentive to photograph regularly. This case is not even a suitable legal “deterrant” case for other paps.
I took the subway from the court back to Hollywood. On my way into the station, I was knocked forward to my knees by a paparazzo on his bike trying to keep pace with Richie and Madden’s car as it made its way toward the freeway.
This is all for nought. My paper protects me as much as its protected them.
Yet, I feel a great weight lifted from my shoulders for having gotten through all this. And so, I go under and back to Hollywood.
