My trial drew eyes like moths to a bonfire—morbid curiosity mixed with the cheap thrill of watching a fallen star burn.
It wasn’t just the charges. It was the spectacle. Former Hollywood sweetheart. Current burnout. Unhinged addict caught on the downslope of fame.
They ate it up like it was prime-time television.
The reporters camped outside the courthouse every morning, shouting my name as though I were still worth shouting for. My mugshot—hollow-cheeked, pupils blown, jaw tight with leftover rage—circulated online like some grotesque collectible.
Inside the courtroom, the prosecution painted me as a menace, someone who snapped and could snap again. The defense tried to spin it as a moment of psychosis, a drug-induced lapse, a man desperate and spiraling.
But I knew the truth.
The m
