In the Air Tonight

You're dead to me

Dead to me, I say

Who the hell do you think you are, anyway?

You betrayed my heart

Right from the start

It was all a lie

It was all...nothin' but a lie

You spread your legs for another man

In selfish hypocrisy

No shame, no regret

How could you forget

The vow you made to me?

I was horrified. Then I noticed the small table set up beside the drum kit, and the San Francisco Giants hat sitting on top of the table. I looked at Junior, and he simply stared wide-eyed at the screen, seemingly oblivious. I thought about the girls. I thought about our friends and family.

If his mission were to humiliate me in front of the entire nation, he wildly succeeded. I received phone calls from the media and various gossip rags for weeks after his performance. As his first solo album became more and more popular, and the lyrics to every song on that album took on a life of their own, I became the scapegoat for every angry man whose wife or girlfriend had ever cheated on him. I received death threats. My tires were slashed. I had to hire a protection service to watch the house, as I feared for the lives of my children.

Worse than that, our children were also humiliated. Their friends - and even some of their teachers - began asking personal questions about my marriage. They were the subjects of endless ridicule, and they began to resent me for it. I did everything I could to explain my side of the story to them, but they were unforgiving - especially Junior. His father had always been his hero. Even at that young age, he realized that I had done something bad to his hero, and that I was the reason why his father no longer lived with us.

Years went by and the fury eventually subsided. At long last, the harassment ended and the healing began. I assumed that we had all moved past it - even Phil. Then, I received that phone call from Allison, and I knew that those old wounds had been reopened and our family would be subjected to public scrutiny and humiliation once again.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

CHAPTER THREE: MARK

My name is Mark Russell. I've worked for the Los Angeles Police Department for the past thirteen years, and served as the lead detective on the Phil Tomlinson case. When I first arrived at the Griffin estate on the night of the incident, I strongly suspected foul play had occurred. The victim was found at the bottom of the pool fully-clothed. It's not as if he were out for a nighttime swim.

Of course, it was possible that he ended up in the pool accidentally. Maybe he tripped on something and fell in. Although the rear of the estate was fairly well-lit, maybe he was distracted and didn't notice where he was going. Maybe he hit his head on something and was unconscious when he fell into the pool. No one was there to see it, so he simply drowned without anyone noticing until later in the evening.

All of that could have been true, yet I couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right about the entire situation. I don't like using the word "hunch," because it makes me sound like one of those cliché TV detectives. It wasn't just a gut feeling I had. I had seen cases like this before, and often what looks like an accident turns out to be anything but.

My suspicions were confirmed as the evidence began to pile up. We interviewed every guest at the party - everyone except one. That person had left the party early. When I arrived at the home of Phil Tomlinson, he greeted me at the front door wearing a big, phony smile. I extended my hand, but he couldn't shake it as it was wrapped in a splint.

"What happened to your hand?" I asked him.

"I was moving some stuff in the garage," he explained, "and a big, heavy, metal toolbox fell on it from one of the shelves."

"When did this happen?" I asked.

"Just this morning," he responded. "I went straight to my doctor, and he put this damn thing on me. It'll keep me from drumming for a while."

I have enough experience to know when someone is lying to me. This guy was lying out his ass. That's when I knew he had something to do with Tom Schilling ending up in that pool.

It didn't take much digging to learn that Schilling had an affair with Tomlinson's ex-wife years prior. Rumors had circulated for years that Tomlinson's album, Duplicity, was all about his ex-wife, her affair, and their bitter divorce. The guy had made a career from his failed marriage. Given that, he should have been grateful to Schilling. Clearly, he still carried a grudge.

"Did you know the victim, Tom Schilling?" I asked him.

Tomlinson paused for a moment, as if he were searching his memory. He was a better singer than he was an actor. "Yeah, I knew him. He did some work around the house years ago." He paused again. I could tell he was attempting to discern how much I knew already. He then added, "Oh, and he fucked my wife."

I ignored his flippant remark. "Have you had any contact with him since that time?"

Tomlinson shook his head. "Nah, I avoided that asshole like the Plague."

"Did you know he was at the party last night?"

"I had no idea. I'm not sure that I'd even recognize the guy. It's been, what, six years since I last saw him."

I jotted down several pages of notes. Tomlinson was very cooperative and answered every one of my questions. I thanked him for his time and returned to the station, convinced that foul play had occurred, and Tomlinson had something to do with it. Now, we had to prove it.

After several weeks of investigation, I gathered all of the evidence we had collected and presented it to the District Attorney. Although I strongly suspected that Tomlinson committed the crime, I knew that we didn't have enough evidence to convict. The DA was a young kid fresh out of law school, though. He was a little too enthusiastic and a little too eager to make a name for himself. Needless to say, we had a difference of opinion on this case.

He wanted to go after Tomlinson as hard as the law would allow. First-degree murder was out of the question, as we couldn't prove that Tomlinson went to the party with the purpose of killing Schilling. Second-degree murder was on the table, but we'd have to prove depraved indifference, which could be a tough sell to a jury - especially one presiding over a case involving someone as famous and popular as Phil Tomlinson. That left manslaughter and negligent homicide as our most realistic options.

I recommended that we keep the case open and await further evidence coming to the surface. Although the evidence all pointed in one direction, there was enough reasonable doubt that a capable defense attorney would chew it all up and spit it out. Our green DA, however, ignored my reservations. He went ahead and filed charges. The media circus had begun.

I sat in the middle row of the courthouse next to Schilling's wife and daughter. I watched Tomlinson's ex-wife, daughters, and son as he was ushered into the courtroom. He appeared nervous, but hid it well enough to nod and smile at his family. I noticed that only his son smiled in return.

After opening remarks by the lead prosecution and defense attorneys, I was the first witness called to the stand. It's something I've done many times before. I'm very familiar with how the game is played. My job was to summarize the totality of the evidence collected at the scene and the interviews that were conducted.

I explained that Mr. Schilling had been discovered at the bottom of the pool by another guest at the party. That guest jumped into the pool, pulled him out of the water, and attempted a rudimentary CPR procedure while another guest called 9-1-1. Schilling was pronounced dead on arrival.

I noted that Mr. Schilling was fully-dressed, and a nearly fully-lit cigarette was found near the edge of the pool with DNA matching the victim's. I explained that another cigarette butt had been found in the bushes along the pool's perimeter, with DNA matching Mr. Tomlinson's. A footprint was found in the flower bed along the side of the house that matched Mr. Tomlinson's shoe size, and with the same pattern found on a pair of his shoes.

I noted that there was a slight abrasion on Mr. Schilling's left cheek, just below his eye. I explained that Mr. Tomlinson wore a splint on his right hand when I arrived at his home for his interview. I briefly covered the interviews I conducted with the guests at the party. No one at the party could account for Mr. Tomlinson's whereabouts at all times during the party, and an interview with the party's host, Mr. Arthur Griffin, revealed that Mr. Tomlinson was aware of Mr. Schilling's presence at the party - which contradicted the statement given to me by Mr. Tomlinson during my initial interview.

I felt that my testimony summarized our physical evidence and witness accounts as thoroughly as possible. It was up to others to establish the motive. Naturally, Tomlinson's high-powered and high-priced attorney, Carl Bloomberg, wasted no time injecting doubt into every piece of evidence collected.

"Mr. Russell," Bloomberg began, "you stated that a cigarette butt was discovered on the property with my client's DNA on it, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir," I responded.

"You also stated that the witnesses you interviewed could not account for Mr. Tomlinson's whereabouts at every moment during the party."

"That's correct."

"Isn't it possible, then, that Mr. Tomlinson stepped outside to smoke a cigarette at some earlier point in the evening? Maybe he took a stroll to enjoy the fresh air, and that's when he left the footprint in the flower bed. Is that not possible?"

"It's possible," I stated. "We're simply establishing the fact that Mr. Tomlinson was, in fact, present at the rear of the property at some point that evening."

Bloomberg stood at the podium and flipped through his notes. I doubt he heard a word I had just said. His question wasn't intended to evoke an answer. It was meant to plant a seed of doubt in the jury's mind. "Let's talk about the abrasion on Mr. Schilling's cheek. Was there any other evidence to suggest that he was involved in a scuffle of any kind? Were his clothes torn? Were there any other marks found on his body?"

"Nothing of relevance," I stated. "But all it takes is a single punch."

"And in your experience, when a man throws a single punch, does it often result in a broken hand?"

"No," I said, "but Mr. Tomlinson had broken that hand previously, and we believe that was a contributing factor."

"You believe," he repeated, "but you don't know for certain. In fact, later during this trial I will be calling to the witness stand a medical doctor who will testify that once a fractured bone heals it is no more likely to break again than any other bone."

"Maybe Tomlinson just doesn't know how to throw a punch," I interrupted. Bloomberg smirked.

"In your notes," he continued, "you stated that Mr. Tomlinson told you his hand broke when a toolbox fell on it. Do you have any evidence to disprove that claim?"

"No, but it seems awfully coincidental, doesn't it?"

"Coincidences happen every day, detective," Bloomberg said with a chuckle.

Our forensics expert was the next to take the stand. He explained in detail the evidence of the contusion on Schilling's cheek and how it was consistent with a punch thrown by a right hand. He also testified about the rarity of Tomlinson's shoes and the DNA evidence on the cigarette butt, but Bloomberg had already established enough doubt to render that evidence worthless.

We still had motive to establish. That, combined with the physical evidence, was supposed to strengthen our case and remove enough reasonable doubt to lead to a guilty verdict. At least, that was our DA's opinion. Several guests at the party were called to the witness stand to establish the fact that Schilling appeared to be in good spirits that night, hadn't argued with anyone at the party, and hadn't given anyone a motive to assault him. Schilling's wife, Becky, was then asked to take the stand. She tearfully recounted her husband's affair with Vanessa Martin (formerly Vanessa Tomlinson.)

The prosecution asked her about a set of photos that had been sent to the Schillings from an anonymous source. The photos showed Vanessa and Tom at a bar, touching each other, kissing, and walking into a hotel room. I watched from the corner of my eye as Schilling's daughter, Samantha, placed her hands over her eyes. I'm sure she knew what had happened, but hearing about it again likely reopened some old wounds.

"Mrs. Schilling, I want to start by saying I'm very sorry for your loss," Bloomberg began. Cross-examining a widow was like creeping across a thin sheet of ice. "Can you tell me, have you ever seen the accused face-to-face before now?"

She glanced at Tomlinson and shook her head. "I've only seen him on TV."

"Do you have any idea where those photos came from?"

"I assume they came from him," she said. "Who else would have sent them?"

"You assume," Bloomberg repeated. "So far, we have a lot of beliefs and assumptions to establish the prosecution's case."

"Objection!" the prosecutor shouted.

"Sustained," the judge said. "Please strike that statement from the record."

"Mrs. Schilling," Bloomberg continued, "you stated that those photos arrived in your mailbox more than six years ago. Is that correct?"

Becky nodded. "Yes."

"Have you any reason to believe that Mr. Tomlinson had any contact with your husband since then?"

"No," she said.

"So, in six years, Mr. Tomlinson had no contact with your husband, and hadn't even made an attempt to reach out to either of you - aside from photos that you allege, but cannot prove, he sent. Yet, the prosecution's case rests on a man carrying a grudge for so long that he would purposely murder a man that he had never confronted up to that point."

"Objection!"

"Sustained," the judge said. "Mr. Bloomberg, save your opinions for your closing argument. Do you have any more actual questions for this witness?"

"Just one question, your honor," Bloomberg said. "Mrs. Schilling, did your husband know how to swim?"

"No," she said, "he never learned."

"Do you have any reason to believe that Mr. Tomlinson was aware of this?"

"I...I don't know. I doubt that he could have known that."

"But you knew that," Bloomberg stated. He paused for a moment, as if contemplating whether or not he should ask his next question. I knew exactly where he was going with this, and understood the reason for his hesitation. "Mrs. Schilling, how did you feel when you learned of your husband's affair?"

Becky's eyes welled with tears and she glanced toward her daughter. "I...I was upset, of course."

"Angry?"

"Well...yes, of course. As anyone would be."

Bloomberg hesitated again. "Mrs. Schilling, why didn't you attend the party that night with your husband?"

The witness looked from Bloomberg to the prosecuting attorneys, appearing perplexed. "I planned to go, but I wasn't feeling well that night, so I stayed home."

"Is there anyone who can corroborate that?"

"Excuse me?"

"Is there anyone who can verify that you were at home on the night of the party, and that you never left your home that night?"

Becky's eyes widened and her jaw dropped as she suddenly realized what Bloomberg was suggesting. She looked to the prosecutors for help. The lead prosecutor stood to his feet.

"Objection, your honor. What is the relevance for this line of questioning?"

"I'm simply trying to establish Mrs. Schilling's whereabouts on the night in question," Bloomberg stated. "The prosecution's entire case rests on the assumption that a murder was committed and that Mr. Tomlinson is the only person on earth with the motive to commit that heinous act."

The judge shook his head. "Overruled. Please answer the question, Mrs. Schilling."

"I...no, no one was home with me that night. I was alone."

"That is all," Bloomberg said. "Thank you, Mrs. Schilling."

We had spent so much time and effort to prove that no one at the party had a motive to assault Schilling that night aside from Tomlinson, and the defense just introduced a possible - though absurd - suspect from outside of the party. Our case was quickly unraveling.

Arthur Griffin was called to the witness stand. He testified that he had a conversation with Tomlinson at some point during the evening in question, and that Tomlinson asked about Schilling. The prosecuting attorney reminded the jury that this contradicted Tomlinson's earlier statement to me. Not only did Tomlinson lie about not knowing that Schilling was at the party, he even lied about not knowing what he looked like. Bloomberg then stepped to the podium for his cross-examination.

"Did Mr. Tomlinson appear upset when you identified Mr. Schilling?" he asked.

"Upset?" Griffin said. "No, I don't think so."

"Angry?"

"No, not angry, either."

"How would you describe his reaction when you verified the identity of Mr. Schilling?" Bloomberg asked.

Griffin shrugged. "I don't know. I'd say...indifferent? Like he couldn't care less, you know?" He glanced over at Tomlinson and smirked.

"When you verified Mr. Schilling's identity, did Mr. Tomlinson confront him?"

"No, he was just laughing, drinking some very expensive wine, eating some incredible food, and having a good time like everyone else at my parties."

"Did he look like he was on the verge of committing murder?" Bloomberg asked.

"Objection! Calls for speculation!"

"Sustained," the judge said.

"No further questions, your honor," Bloomberg said.

When the prosecution wrapped up their side of the case, I felt that familiar empty, queasy sensation in the pit of my stomach. This trial was heading in a direction that was both predictable and nauseating. Bloomberg had punched enough holes in the prosecution's case that he hardly needed to call any witnesses himself. Tomlinson just sat there looking smug and confident while Bloomberg called only a small handful of witnesses to the stand. Although the prosecution would have loved for Tomlinson himself to testify, there was no reason for the defense to take that risk.

The two lead attorneys delivered their closing arguments, and the jury went into deliberation. Becky and Samantha were already in tears. They knew what was coming. I left the courtroom and ventured into the hallway in search of a bite to eat. I made a bee-line toward the vending machine. That's when I spotted young Phil standing in front of the machine, just staring blankly at the selections.

I gave him some space. After a long pause, he finally made his selection. When he turned around, he noticed me and nodded in recognition. I could see the pain in his eyes.

"Ding-dong," I said with a wink, motioning toward his snack. "Good choice."

He just looked at me for a moment. Then he said, "He did it, didn't he?"

I didn't know how to respond to that. "Well, that's up to the jury to decide," I said.

"It doesn't matter what they say," he said. "I know he did it. I think everyone knows it."

While I stammered in an attempt to come up with a polite response, the kid walked right past me and returned to the courtroom.

It took the jury less than an hour to return with a decision. On the count of murder-two: not guilty. On the count of manslaughter: not guilty. On the count of negligent homicide: not guilty. Tomlinson just got away with murder.

He flashed that famous smile from ear to ear, pumped his fist, and shook hands with his attorneys after the final verdict was read. He exchanged knowing glances with a few of the jury members and turned to find his family. His smile faded when he noted the expressions on their faces. His ex-wife and her daughters turned and left the courtroom. His son turned to leave as well, but then pivoted back toward his father and moved toward him.