everyone knew Mickey Shannon had.
She had learned to control him, in their seven years as attorney and client. Mickey had
been a struggling unknown actor when Jessica, fresh out of law school, had hung out her
shingle on the Sunset Strip. He had come through her door, a humble and confused
young man who had been shafted by an unscrupulous screen agent. She had succeeded in
getting Mickey’s money back from the agent, and since then she had advised him through
contracts and salary disputes, had stayed by him when he couldn’t pay her, and had ulti-
mately given him the introduction that had led him, finally, to stardom. When his songs
hit the charts and Mickey achieved almost overnight fame, he had not left Jessica for one
of the glitzy, hotshot firms over in Century City, where all the big stars had their agents
and attorneys. Mickey Shannon was steadfastly loyal to the struggling young lawyer who
had taken him on when no one else in Hollywood would give him the time of day. And
now, on this crisp January morning, he was reaping the rewards of that loyalty.
When Les Walker, notorious photographer of celebrities, had hounded Mickey just
once too often, provoking Mickey into ripping the camera out of his hands and smashing
it on the sidewalk, the film pulled out and exposed, Walker had sued the rock star for
interference with his livelihood and for damages to replace his equipment. Walker was
also asking for five million dollars in punitive damages.
Mickey, frantic, had gone to Jessica, and she had calmly told him there was nothing to
worry about. They were going to countersue. She had then gone on to defend her client
49
50
Kathryn Harvey
successfully in a crowded courtroom, using for his defense a dramatic rendition of the
excesses to which the photographer had gone—following Mickey Shannon dangerously
close on the freeway, blocking his parked car, maliciously hounding him every minute of
the day—so that Mickey was now demanding restitution for the mental anguish caused
by the hazardous situations the photographer had placed him in.
And the judge had found in his favor.
When the commotion died down and the courtroom was quiet, the judge issued a
temporary restraining order against Mr. Walker and set a calendar date for a hearing to
determine why it should not, in fact, be a permanent restraining order. Mickey Shannon,
handsome rock idol of millions of girls, threw his arms around his attorney and planted a
kiss right on her mouth.
They had won.
Out on the courtroom steps, Jessica and her client were immediately surrounded by
reporters and TV cameras and crews. She made a rather flamboyant statement, her face
glowing with victory, her voice strong and triumphant, while the people from the press
made note of the fact that Jessica Franklin, Mickey Shannon’s “powerhouse attorney, a
dynamo in the courtroom, petite and feminine, was conservatively dressed in a tailored
suit with a briefcase that matched her handbag and shoes…”
Jessica would have liked to join the celebration luncheon at Spago, but her schedule
was too full. Picking up her husband at the airport was top priority, and after that, back
to the office to do some dictation, then a much needed visit with her best friend, Trudie.
It was upon this last that Jessica now settled her thoughts as she sped along the San
Diego Freeway in her commodore-blue Fleetwood Cadillac. Trudie, who had something
mysterious to tell her. Something about a butterfly. “You absolutely must work me into
your schedule somehow!” Trudie had said on the phone last night. She had spoken
breathlessly, with barely contained excitement. “I want to tell you about Butterfly. You
just won’t believe it!”
And that was all. Typical of Trudie, to be so theatrical and secretive. To lend drama to
what was probably going to turn out to be a very mundane item. But that was one of the
things Jessica loved about Trudie—the way she
She had learned to control him, in their seven years as attorney and client. Mickey had
been a struggling unknown actor when Jessica, fresh out of law school, had hung out her
shingle on the Sunset Strip. He had come through her door, a humble and confused
young man who had been shafted by an unscrupulous screen agent. She had succeeded in
getting Mickey’s money back from the agent, and since then she had advised him through
contracts and salary disputes, had stayed by him when he couldn’t pay her, and had ulti-
mately given him the introduction that had led him, finally, to stardom. When his songs
hit the charts and Mickey achieved almost overnight fame, he had not left Jessica for one
of the glitzy, hotshot firms over in Century City, where all the big stars had their agents
and attorneys. Mickey Shannon was steadfastly loyal to the struggling young lawyer who
had taken him on when no one else in Hollywood would give him the time of day. And
now, on this crisp January morning, he was reaping the rewards of that loyalty.
When Les Walker, notorious photographer of celebrities, had hounded Mickey just
once too often, provoking Mickey into ripping the camera out of his hands and smashing
it on the sidewalk, the film pulled out and exposed, Walker had sued the rock star for
interference with his livelihood and for damages to replace his equipment. Walker was
also asking for five million dollars in punitive damages.
Mickey, frantic, had gone to Jessica, and she had calmly told him there was nothing to
worry about. They were going to countersue. She had then gone on to defend her client
49
50
Kathryn Harvey
successfully in a crowded courtroom, using for his defense a dramatic rendition of the
excesses to which the photographer had gone—following Mickey Shannon dangerously
close on the freeway, blocking his parked car, maliciously hounding him every minute of
the day—so that Mickey was now demanding restitution for the mental anguish caused
by the hazardous situations the photographer had placed him in.
And the judge had found in his favor.
When the commotion died down and the courtroom was quiet, the judge issued a
temporary restraining order against Mr. Walker and set a calendar date for a hearing to
determine why it should not, in fact, be a permanent restraining order. Mickey Shannon,
handsome rock idol of millions of girls, threw his arms around his attorney and planted a
kiss right on her mouth.
They had won.
Out on the courtroom steps, Jessica and her client were immediately surrounded by
reporters and TV cameras and crews. She made a rather flamboyant statement, her face
glowing with victory, her voice strong and triumphant, while the people from the press
made note of the fact that Jessica Franklin, Mickey Shannon’s “powerhouse attorney, a
dynamo in the courtroom, petite and feminine, was conservatively dressed in a tailored
suit with a briefcase that matched her handbag and shoes…”
Jessica would have liked to join the celebration luncheon at Spago, but her schedule
was too full. Picking up her husband at the airport was top priority, and after that, back
to the office to do some dictation, then a much needed visit with her best friend, Trudie.
It was upon this last that Jessica now settled her thoughts as she sped along the San
Diego Freeway in her commodore-blue Fleetwood Cadillac. Trudie, who had something
mysterious to tell her. Something about a butterfly. “You absolutely must work me into
your schedule somehow!” Trudie had said on the phone last night. She had spoken
breathlessly, with barely contained excitement. “I want to tell you about Butterfly. You
just won’t believe it!”
And that was all. Typical of Trudie, to be so theatrical and secretive. To lend drama to
what was probably going to turn out to be a very mundane item. But that was one of the
things Jessica loved about Trudie—the way she
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