If Vincent Bugliosi was alive, he would tell you why he was the greatest prosecutor who ever lived. He would show genuine surprise at your ignorance of his monumental achievement. Charles Manson was not present during the Tate-LaBianca Murders, still he persuaded twelve the jurors to convict him of murder. He was legendary for meticulous preparation. Between 1964 and 1973 he tried 106 felony cases as a Los Angeles County District Attorney. He won 105 convictions. Fifty years later his name is still whispered with reverence in the halls of the Los Angeles County Court House. Co-prosecutors sit in cramped windowless offices reviewing witness statements, ask each other, what would Vince do?
He wrote eleven books. Helter Skelter, the story of the Manson prosecution, sold 7 million copies. It is the bestselling true crime book in history. He won the Edgar Award for true crime writing three times. But, he never said a single word about my case. I am Marabella Westen.
In 1972, I worked at Tom O Brian’s, the best Irish pub in LA. Long-mirrored bar, red leather high backed chairs, wooden tables. The ambiance of a gentleman club without dues. Far enough from downtown to avoid colleagues, close enough to knock back a few and still make an afternoon appearance at the office. The Irish stew could make your mother cry. The bar smelled of cigarettes and furniture wax. On slow days, Ned would polish the bar till your face would smile back at you. I worked six nights a week and bartended when Ned called in sick. My dad used to say “ all money’s good if you make enough of it” and I made enough of it at Tom O Brian’s.
The bar was frequented by accountants, businessmen and dubious movie producers. n Wednesday, Max Raymond shuffled in. He worked in silent movies. He stopped in for a scotch and company while his wife played canasta. He had fringes of white hair on both sides of his head, and faded eyes. He was a bit stooped but tried to hide it.
He sat down, nodded at me, laid his cap on the table. “I still have some friends in the business. I would be happy to make some calls.” I was the only woman in Los Angeles happy serving drinks.
I patted his hand. “No thanks.”
“You have something very special.”
“Scotch?”
“On the rocks, a double.”
His arthritis must be bothering him if he wanted a double. I got his double scotch laid it in front of him. He twirled the ice, took a sip, looked over the rim with reverence in his eyes. Rembrandt eying his muse, studying the light, trying to figure a way to translate my essence to canvas.
“You have a look about you.” You could have an orgy with the USC Marching Band on Saturday night and wake up a virgin on Sunday morning.”
I’m a looker. Twenty-six long slender legs that go on forever. A bosom big enough to invite admiring looks and sideways glances. Red hair the color of a blood orange. Blue eyes with tiny flecks of gray. Skin as delicate as China.
Max jerked a thumb at Ned tending bar. “Still wasting time with that one?” Ned and I had been together about a year. He makes me laugh, great sex. Only problem, where the hell was the ring?
I saw Trisha Emory come in the back door looking around for an able-bodied male to bring in the beer kegs, she was supposedly delivering. She was petite with stocky legs, a thick waist, thin lips always turned down. Stringy dishwater brown hair pulled back into a limp ponytail. Everything about her was beige. No one would have done her job for her, except her father owned the brewery.
She walked to the bar, leaned over, planted a loud sloppy kiss on Ned’s cheek. He recoiled like he’d been slapped. In that moment I knew he was screwing her. If I suspected Ned of cheating, I would have put money on Tawny Hansen. The L. A. Lakers cheerleader.
There were no warning signs. No canceling dates, never too tired for sex. I loved him, he was the one. I had no choice. I would wait her out.
For six months I played dumb, Christmas came and went I got a gold bracelet. Two weeks before Valentine’s day, Trisha was pretending to make one of her so-called deliveries. Ned was off. I was clearing lunch dishes. She walked up behind me.
“We need to talk,” she said.
“About what?” I asked putting on a fake smile.
“I think you know.”
I wasn’t going to make it easy. “No, I don’t know.”
Joe at the bar stopped wiping. Sherri starred at both of us from a table across the room. They waited, maybe I would slap her. A girl fight would brighten up a dull Wednesday.
“Meet me at my apartment its two blocks over, 222 Holt apartment 3, I’ll be home about 6:30 tonight.” She nodded, walked out. Sherri didn’t try to hide her disappointment.
Talk? About what? What were we going to do? Have a duel? At 6:22 I saw her out the front window, she had walked around the block twice. Her limp hair lay flat against her head, her bottom lip curled under. Her squinty eyes were half closed. 501 jeans slung low over skinny hips. I opened my front door before she could knock. She stepped into my living room. I saw what the dim light in the bar had kept hidden. The slight fullness in her face. The swell of her breasts.
It hit me like a freight train.
“How far along?” I asked.
“Four months.”
Her father was very rich. In my mind’s eye, I saw the country club wedding with 250 guests drinking champagne on a huge manicured lawn. Trisha wearing a long white puffy dress that would accentuate her short legs, make her skin look sallow. Ned tall, handsome, standing at the altar totally bewildered.
I imagined, an infant screaming when Ned called me months later.“ I miss you, can I come over, tonight? “Please?”
I blinked the dream out of my eyes.
“Does Ned know?” I asked.
“Not yet, that’s why I thought we should talk.”
“Sit down” I said pointing to the couch. She sat put her foot on her knee and leaned back into the puffy couch cushions.
I headed for the kitchen in the other room. “Want something to drink?”
“Water please, lately I’m always thirsty.”
I leaned my forehead on the cool yellow tile of the sink. Took a deep breath. Ned was lost to me. I let the reality sink in, tried to find the edges of my pain, but it was out of reach. I stood, ran the faucet, grabbed a glass from the cupboard. My grandmothers large wooden rolling pin sat in the dish drainer. The only thing she brought with her when she immigrated.
I grabbed it by the handle, placed it behind my back, walked back to the living room. Trisha’s eyes were darting around the living room. Her eyes slowed at the new color television, the plush velvet armchairs. Was she wondering what else she could have that was mine?
I handed her the glass. Her face was puckered, as if she was about to cry. As she was brushing her bangs out of her eyes and taking a sip of water, I brought the rolling pin from behind my back and smashed it down on her head. The glass flew from her hand, her eyes bulged. Blood flowed from her scalp and ran in rivulets down the side of her face.
I pulled my arm across my chest and backhanded her in the jaw. The force of the handle made her head spin. Her body fell right, water trickled out of the side of her mouth. Her breath made a hissing sound, as it leaked from her body. She died. Sound died with her. No birds. No traffic, no wind, only an eerie quiet stretching through every inch of the apartment, clinging to the walls.
I placed the bloody rolling pin on the end table. I got into the shower, washed the blood spatter out of my hair. I wondered how long it would be before I would have another shower alone. I dried myself, put on a pair of jeans and a pink v neck sweater. Then, I dialed the police.
I was sitting in an armchair, sipping a Heineken and smoking a Pall Mall, when I heard the knock.
“Police.”
“Come in, it’s open,” I said loud enough to be heard through the door. He was young with a flat face, jutting chin and dull eyes.
He looked at Trisha Emory’s corpse, at the bloody rolling pin, then at me. He shook his head. I put the Heineken down on the carpet, shoved my cigarette into the bottle, held up both wrists for him to cuff me.
I have no family. I couldn’t make bail. I sat in the Los Angeles County jail, kept my mouth shut and waited. Sixteen days after my arraignment, my cell door opened and in walked a man about 26. He had a Marine buzz cut; white shirt too big at the neck. He walked toward me, stuck out his hand, “I’m Jason Markson, your lawyer.” He hesitated when he said lawyer as if he was trying it on to see if it fit. “The D.A. has an offer, if you plead guilty to second degree manslaughter, you will get seven years, probably out in three. You’re young, you could do your time and start over.”
I was half listening while I watched a small wren fly past the bars of the window.
“No deal,” I said.
“California has the death penalty.”
I sighed. Who gave this idiot a law degree?
“Death penalty is for first degree murder; I was charged with manslaughter,” I said patiently as if teaching a three-year-old to tie his shoe.
He opened my file, flipped through the pages. He pursed his lips. “I don’t think you understand the seriousness of your situation. If you refuse to plead, trial will begin next month. Vincent Bugliosi, the Manson prosecutor, will be trying your case.” He said Vincent Bugliosi like one would say god or Einstein or Picasso. A different kind of being.
My trial started thirteen days later, on Monday morning. The windowless courtroom was empty. Trisha’s parents choose not to attend. I wore a navy-blue suit with a skirt just above my knees. Short enough to attract the eyes of the male jurors long enough to be respectable. My hair was curled into smooth ringlets to sit softly on each shoulder.
Vincent Bugliosi wore a charcoal black suit with a white dress shirt. His only concession to color was a dull green necktie. He was tall with the grace of an athlete. He had a long thin face, wide brown eyes. The final jury was made up off nine men and three women. Vincent Bugliosi began his opening statement;
“The evidence will show Marabella Weston,” he pointed a long thin finger at me, “took this rolling pin”, he held it up making sure the jurors could see the dried blood, “and used it to beat Trisha Emory to death. Trisha was her rival for the affections of Ned. Ned was her boyfriend for a year and a half. Ned was the man she wanted to marry.”
He lowered his voice, paused, waited until all you could hear was the soft click of the clock. “Trish Emory was four months pregnant.” He turned, starred at me as though I was Satan.
He called Sheri, the waitress from O Brian’s. She testified hearing me give Trisha the address of my apartment. Ned was called to the stand; he couldn’t look at me. He testified he had been screwing Trisha for eight months.
The medical examiner testified the deceased died of blunt force trauma to the head. My lawyer was a deaf mute, he sat and watched Vincent Bugliosi in awe.
When the medical examiner finished testifying, the prosecution rested. I told my lawyer “Put me on the stand.” He shook his head. “Bugliosi will destroy you.”
“Do it,” I hissed.
I patted my cheek, felt smooth grains of face powder. Thank god for Max Factor face powder. Super fine grains of flesh-colored powder sprinkled with tiny sparkles.
On Monday morning I wore Tawny Beige, enough color to banish the prison pallor. On Tuesday, I wore Honey Mist, the same shade as my skin. Today, I was wearing Champagne Blonde. I applied it carefully in a cracked mirror in my cell. Brushed it over my temples under my hairline, across the bottom of my jaw. The iridescence made me seem ethereal.
“The defense calls Marabella Weston to the stand.” I walked slowly to the witness stand, was sworn in by the clerk. My attorney began, “Did you know Miss Emory?”
“Yes”
“How did you know her?”
“She delivered beer to O Brian’s, the bar where I work.”
“Did you know she was having sex with your boyfriend, Ned?”
I opened my eyes wide, nodded my head slowly as though I were in pain.
“Please answer audibly”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Why was she in your apartment on the afternoon of Wednesday, January 12, 1972?”
“She stopped by the bar that afternoon, she said she wanted to talk.”
“Couldn’t you have talked in the bar? Why did you invite her to your apartment?”
“The other waitresses were watching. I wanted to talk in private. I had a split shift, I needed to go home and grab something to eat before my second shift.”
“When you invited her to your apartment, did you plan to kill her?”
“No”
“No further questions.”
Vincent Bugliosi stood, buttoned his suitcoat, walked to the podium.
“Now, Miss Weston, it is miss correct, you have never been married?”
“I have never been married.”
“But you want to be.”
“Doesn’t every girl want to be married?”
“You were in love with Ned Mason?”
“Still am. Don’t think I will ever stop loving him. He’s the only man for me.”
“Miss Cartwright testified, before the murder of Trisha Emory you were waiting for Ned to propose. Is that true?”
I looked at juror number nine, a matronly woman in her mid-thirties with steel grey hair. She wore a pink dress long sleeved polyester dress. It bunched around her shoulders, and was tight across the bust. It must have been on sale.
“I’m still waiting.” Juror number nine nodded. She too, was still waiting.
“Did you kill Miss Emory?”
The clock stopped ticking. The jurors blinked their eyes, wiped their brows and leaned forward. I took a small breath, crossed my legs at the ankles looked right at the jurors. In a small voice, I said, “I killed her, she took my man, Ned was the only man I ever loved.” A tear rolled silently down my face. “Ned was my only chance for happiness.”
“Well, that doesn’t give you right to commit murder?” he thundered.
“Is that a question?” I asked.
“Let me try again. Do you believe because you loved Ned, you had the right to murder Miss Emory and …”, he stopped again, his famous pause. “Her unborn child?”
I looked at juror number four, a balding postal carrier with a hook nose.
“I think,” I began. My lawyer found his voice. “Objection. What Miss Weston thinks has no bearing on this case.”
“Objection sustained. Mr. Bugliosi do you have any relevant questions to ask?”
“No, your honor.”
The attorneys gave closing arguments which passed in a rush of words. I stared out the courtroom window at the haze and smog of the Los Angles morning. At 11:03 my case went to the jury.
The jury was out four hours and 10 minutes. Juror number seven, a retired kindergarten teacher handed the verdict to the clerk. He took it and walked to his desk and opened it.
“We the jury in the above-entitled matter find Defendant Marabella Weston Not guilty of the murder of Trisha Emory.”
My lawyer turned to hug me. I laid a delicate hand on his chest, stepped back, shook his hand.
Bugliosi’s face turned red, then a mottled purple. His jaw fell open. He shuffled papers on the table, fumbled with the change in his pants pocket. I, Marabella Weston, barmaid had slipped through the masters fingers, a blemish on his record. The clerk grabbed the phone on his desk, began dialing. In five minutes, every bailiff, court reporter, investigator and defense lawyer in Los Angeles would know. They would sit in bars like O Brian’s, slap each other on the back, and order another. “The defendant confessed to the murder on the stand, and he still lost.” No-one would try to conceal their glee.
I looked over at Mr. Bugliosi tall, arrogant, sure. Always ready to point his finger. Always quick to judge. When he first read my file he decided I was just another jealous broad with no brains and a bad temper. He had never seen me before trial. His skill, experience, and painstaking preparation would not help him. I knew something he did not. When you are born with a perfect body and a face like a Botticelli angel, you can get away with murder. I was acquitted by a jury of my peers in the murder of Trisha Emory on July 16, 1973. On that date every year, till he died, I sent Vincent Bugliosi a dozen long stemmed red roses. I couldn’t help myself.
[Image Credit : Photo by Tingey Injury Law Firm on Unsplash ]
by 
Lisa Danny-Roberts
Latest posts by Lisa Danny-Roberts (see all)
- State of California vs. Marabella Weston - February 13, 2024
Loved this story! Very different from other short stories I have read lately. Great character descriptions. I almost felt as if I was sitting in Tom O Brian’s, eating the Irish stew and watching the story unfold.