It wasn’t the first time I’d received a Batsignal from Phil Spector, but the one that came in on Monday morning, April 13, hinted that something was even more amiss than usual:
friends: while the jury deliberates my fate, the waiting is torturous and excruciating. therefore, i try to get out as much as possible when i am not “on call” to the judge and jury, daily, from nine thirty a.m. to 12 noon, and then again from one thirty pm to four pm. so i go to the [restaurant] in Alhambra for lunch between 12 noon and one thirty pm to get away for an hour and a half and still be close by the castle to return home quickly and get to the diner quickly from the castle at noon. if you care to join me for lunch please consider yourself invited. love, phillip
Jim and I arrived at about 12:30. Spotting us, a waitress told us that Phil had arrived, then been suddenly called away. That could mean only one thing: the verdict was in.
There wasn’t time to get to the courthouse, park and go through two security screenings by 2:00, so I returned home, expecting the worst. And soon, the news came in, and it was the worst: second-degree murder, with bonus points for using a firearm.
Before I go into the death of Lana Clarkson and the resultant trials any further, perhaps I should explain where I came in. (pages 2-4 linked below)