The People of the State of New York V. June Emilia Perry, Defendant

THIS TRANSCRIPT IS WRITTEN BY AN OFFICIAL REPORTER FOR THE COURT WHO CERTIFIES THE ACCURACY AND INTEGRITY OF THIS TRANSCRIPT.

The preliminary hearing is held before the Honorable Edward B. Sullivan, Judge preceding. The proceedings commence at approximately 9:48 am in Courtroom number 165.

APPEARANCES:

On behalf of The People of the State of New York:

CORBIN SLATER, Esquire

On behalf of the Defense:

HENRY WALLIS, Esquire

P-R-O-C-E-E-D-I-N-G-S

DEPUTY CLERK: The case before the Court at this time is The People of the State of New York versus June Emila Perry, 2019-NY1-30427.

MR. SLATER: Corbin Slater on behalf of the People of the State of New York, your Honor.

THE COURT: Good morning, Mr. Slater.

MR. SLATER: Good morning, your Honor.

MR. WALLIS: Good morning, your Honor. Henry Wallis on behalf of Ms. Perry.

THE COURT: Good morning, Mr. Wallis.

(Defendant present)

THE COURT: Good Morning, Ms. Perry.

DEFENDANT: Good Morning. (beat) Your Honor.

THE COURT: Ms. Perry. You are brought before the Court on one count of first-degree voluntary manslaughter and one count of first-degree felony murder. How do you plead to these charges as stated?

DEFENDANT: Not guilty, your Honor.

THE COURT: Ms. Perry. I have been informed of a deal made between Mr. Slater and Mr. Wallis. It would require you to enter a guilty plea for one count of second-degree involuntary manslaughter, which would carry a ten-year sentence with the possibility for parole. In exchange, the state will levy no other charges against you for the events that took place at The Grand Marquis Theatre on June 24th, 2019. Has counsel informed you about this offer?

DEFENDANT: Yes, your Honor. But I don’t want it.

THE COURT: You don’t want it?

DEFENDANT: No. I mean yes, your Honor. I do not want to accept this deal.

THE COURT: Ms. Perry. I want to make sure you understand the severity of these charges. If you deny this plea deal, there will not be another offer. You will be made to stand trial before a jury of your peers for all charges, including first-degree felony murder. You would be eligible to receive the maximum sentence of life without parole. This is an exceedingly exceptional deal obtained by your council. Denying it is, in my opinion, a very foolish and naive choice. Are you sure you want to proceed?

DEFENDANT: Your Honor, I didn’t do anything wrong. A jury will see me and understand that it was all a horrible accident and that I was told-

THE COURT: Counsel, please inform your client that this is not the time to argue her case. She should answer the stated question: Are you sure you want to proceed?

DEFENDANT: Sorry, your Honor. Yes, your Honor.

THE COURT: Then how do you plead to the charge of first-degree involuntary manslaughter?

DEFENDANT: Not guilty, your Honor.

THE COURT: Alright, we will schedule a date for the jury trial. Ms. Perry. For your sake, I hope you don’t live to regret this decision.

Exhibit A: Excerpts from a brown leather-bound notebook belonging to the defendant, June Emilia Perry.

Excerpt #1:

As of today, I am no longer June. Goodbye. Farewell. Sayonara. After years spent standing in the background and leaving auditions with a simple “thank you for your time,” someone finally took a chance on me. All the rejections and hardships and humiliation finally means something. I booked a production of A Murder Colored in Green, a new play premiering next month. So as of today, I am no longer June. I am Louisa Donovan, and this book should know me as such. Louisa comes from a wealthy east coast family. Louisa married well but wants to be known in her own right. Louisa is clever. Louisa is jealous. Louisa is headstrong. Louisa is everything I am not. I can’t screw her up.

Set the scene: An old New York mansion covered in ivy, furnished with the finest leather upholstery. Well, not quite. I am looking at an empty warehouse, yellow tape separating the parlor from the kitchen and the balcony from the ground floor. The director calls action. Louisa sits in the parlor with William Donovan, her husband. I pretend that a line of folding chairs is a sofa while Matthew uses a turned-over bucket as an armchair. I open the non-existent door and welcome Alice and Peter, who Louisa would know as Florence and Benjamin Finch. Small talk proceeds. Reports about the snowy weather. (Although I can feel the sweat stains pooling underneath my armpits.) Reports about our shared business. (Although none of us can make sense of the numbers. The gist is that money has gone missing from the accounting books, and nobody can figure out where it went.) Tension heightens as the numbers become more complex until Alice (Florence?) refuses a glass of champagne. It’s an odd choice for her, and she explains it with an announcement: The Finches are expecting a baby next spring. The conversation changes from checking accounts to nurseries, and I give them my congratulations.

“Stop!” the director yells. “June. That’s not your line.” Shit. I thought I was doing well. I apologize and check the script. Weird. I thought I said that line. It must have come out wrong. The scene starts again, this time beginning with our small talk. It’s snowing. Money is missing. A baby is coming. I congratulate them, but the director stops me again.

“Is that not the line? I thought I fixed it.” I try to grab the book, but he takes it first.

“No, it’s correct. There’s just something disingenuous about it.” He pauses at the word disingenuous, overemphasizing every syllable. His eyes are sunken with disappointment. When I stare into his pupils, I can see casting calls for Monistat commercials and my old Denny’s uniform inside them. The thought makes me tremble.

“I’m so sorry. I-”

“Don’t be sorry. Be better. Again.” Once again, we go through our small talk. Snow. Money. Baby. Congratulations. The director shakes his head but lets us continue. William wants a cup of tea, and Florence joins him in the kitchen. Peter and I- No. Benjamin and Louisa discuss their families’ business and decide to check the study. They leave through the kitchen and only find a few unhelpful documents.

As I exit the stage and take a seat next to the director, Florence and William enter. It’s a passionate scene and a scandalous one at that. William demands to know if the baby is his. He desires a child, and he can not get one in his marriage. Florence expresses uncertainty about the child’s paternity but admits her true feelings for him. They embrace each other with a fiery affection, Florence’s signature red lipstick rubbing off on his face. Then William grows cold. He leaves Florence with an overwhelming decision: him or her husband.

“Look at her. Look at how comfortable she is up there,” the director whispers, watching the scene through his pink-tinted lenses.

“I always love watching Alice, too..”

“That’s the difference between you two. I never see Alice on stage, but I always see June.” He doesn’t take his gaze off of her. His eyes are filled with deep admiration. There are images of casting couches and standing ovations forming in his pupils. I look at Alice. She winks at the director who sinks a little deeper into his chair, his legs spread so wide that I am forced onto the easternmost ledge of my seat. I tremble, bile boiling in the back of my throat. I swallow and continue.

Excerpt #2:

There’s a body on the floor. The detective is mere minutes away. On the table, there is a water-filled teacup. It’s meant to be filled with arsenic-sweetened tea, but the technical department took some practical liberties. Oh, dear journal! Not only did we receive our props, but we were cleared to use the set. We can rehearse with a wooden frame rather than our typical tape and bucket situation. The set is bare-bones at the moment, but at least I can sit on a chair and open the doors.

The director shows me the sugar-glass bottles. They look identical to the regular bottles, but we can break them without popping a vein. Sugar-glass is rather expensive, but the director wants me to practice breaking it. I swing a bottle against the wall, and it doesn’t crack. I toss it to the ground. It chips but remains largely intact. After several minutes, Alice comes over. The director takes the bottle from my hands and passes it to her. His hands linger on top of hers for a moment longer than expected. They eventually travel up her arm, gently pushing the hair off of her shoulder.

“Show her how it’s done.” With those words, Alice smacks the bottle against the ground. There is something unfamiliar about her stance. Something angry. Something feral. A loud bang and the bottle crumbles in her hand, leaving only dust behind. (Of course, she had to get it on her first try.) She raises her crumby hands towards her mouth, babbling about the edible glass that tastes like rock candy. She prompts me to check my fingers for dust. Against my better judgment, I let the bitter, unsanitary residue into my mouth. When she takes a breath, I ask for another turn with a bottle. The director says no. He does not want to waste any more bottles before technical rehearsals. Alice asks me about the dust. I smile and tell her it tastes good.

The dead body is still on the floor. It belongs to William. The detective confirms that the poisoned tea killed him, but there is something else. It looks like William is bleeding from his neck, but a single touch confirms that the stain is not bloody. It is Chanel ruby red lipstick, the same shade spread across Florence’s lips. Arguments ensue between the knocked-up mistress, her cuckold, and the widowed wife. They all have a motive, and someone is lying. The detective ignores their bickering and finds the letter from the study. He holds it near the fireplace. A mysterious adhesive melts and reveals two new documents. One contains evidence about the business’ missing money. All funds went directly into an off-shore account owned by the late William Donovan. The other is William’s notarized will. It leaves everything to Florence. Benjamin breaks. He maintains his innocence but regrets having an adultress for a wife and a cheat for a business partner. He steps over William’s body while proclaiming his victimhood.

The scene comes to an end. We rerun it again. And again. And again. Every time it’s a different note. June, your timing is off. June, stop holding your hands awkwardly. June, you’re not making enough eye contact with Benjamin. June, you’re making too much eye contact with Benjamin. June, you don’t look sad enough. June, you don’t look angry enough. June, why do you look bored? June, you look constipated when you cry. June. June. June. June. June. Sometimes we hear a “Peter.” We somehow hear the occasional “Mathew.” (How do you give notes to a corpse?) It takes a while, but we finally hear another name. The director adjusts his blush-colored glasses and points at her.

“Alice. We don’t want you to be over-rehearsed. Sit this round out, and I’ll read for you.” Sit it out? Sit it out! How is that fair to the rest of us? We could all use a break. A moment of reflection. Some goddamn compassion! We don’t get that luxury. We have been killing ourselves for the scraps she gets for free. But I stay silent. Everyone does. We watch as Alice takes a seat next to the director, pride swelling behind her emerald gaze as his hand rests on the small of her back.

Excerpt #3:

I never thought we’d get this far. In the early stages of a production, the play is an intangible thing. It is merely an abstract concept—a collection of words and people. We now have actors and costumes and lighting and decor. The aesthetics of this production exist in a real way. But chaos tends to cling to our theatre, and no amount of preparation can stop it.

The problems start at the intermission of our first technical rehearsal. We run the first act in street clothes and plan on wearing costumes for the second act. When the costume director arrives, I am thrilled to see my sage-green t-length dress and matching kitten heels. My excitement quickly melts into distress when I put it on. The dress is at least two sizes too small, and there is a half-inch gap between my heel and the back of the shoes. As I go to show the director, my strides turn into waddles. The seams dig into my sides, forcing me to stiffen my upper body like a plastic doll. I must be cautious not to lose my footing, gingerly picking up my feet to keep the tips of my shoes against my toes. The director barely looks up from his phone while giving his approval.

“You look fine.”

“It may look good, but it doesn’t fit me and-”

“If it zips, it fits. Make it work.” That was that. He proclaimed it was fine, and so it must be. I couldn’t possibly have a concern worthy of consideration. Only Alice has those. She has enough concerns for all of us. She wants shoes with a strap. She looks washed out in pink. The beaded dress is too heavy for her. Dress after dress, Alice sifts through her options. (Yes. Options. Plural.) Alice leaves her discarded costumes thrown haphazardly on a dressing-room rack. When I check the rack, I realize that none of her unwanted dresses would be better suited for me. I am already wearing an Alice-sized dress.

But I don’t complain. I can’t. The curtains come up, and I enter the stage with Benjamin. We discuss the mutual betrayal we suffered at the hands of Florence and the deceased. I begin to cry. Benjamin comforts me. It starts as a shoulder to cry on. Then it escalates to a hand to hold. Arms to hug. Lips to kiss. In between the passionate acts of our newly founded affair, I breathlessly tell him my speculations about William’s murder. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t him. It must have been Florence. Benjamin ceases at the mention of her name. He pushes me away, maintaining his wife’s innocence. I scoff. There are only three possible suspects, and Florence is the only one in his will. Anyone could see that the bitch did it. Benjamin takes a step back. His eyes go wide, and he rushes out the door.

Every flirt and flounce is a battle. My body and mind are disconnected. No matter what I do, my body stiffens. I feel the spotlight growing dimmer by the minute as I stumble over my lines. I can’t stop thinking about it. My lines. My body. My performance. They’re all looking at me. The cast. Alice. Our director. They see June screwing it up. The second act takes over an hour to complete, twice as long as it’s supposed to be. At the end of the night, the director takes off his glasses and furiously rubs his eyes as if he is trying to unsee my performance.

As I gather my belongings, a pocket mirror shows a monstrous silhouette with a grotesquely red face. There is no life behind my cold gaze. Alice is on stage, practicing her bows with the director. Every flirt and flounce of hers is a battle. It’s a threat. She can do no wrong in his eyes. I can’t stand them. I can’t stand her. Fine. Maybe he is the sun. But there can only be one moon. (This is earth, not mars.) If I can’t produce my own light, I will find some other way to take it. I look back at my eyes in the mirror. They are no longer dead. Something is growing behind them. Something feral.

Exhibit B: The Director’s Script, Annotated

The scene shifts to the parlor. Florence sits on the sofa, distraught yet unsure about any new discoveries. She has isolated herself from the others since the detective uncovered her affair. Louisa enters the parlor through the kitchen doors. Florence is visibly startled by her entrance. Louisa stays by the entrance, near a cabinet with several bottles and knickknacks. June needs a more menacing presence. Something wicked this way comes!

Florence: Oh! Louisa. It’s just you.

Louisa: Just me? Is it a relief to see your paramour’s newly widowed ex-wife?

Florence: No, that’s not- I didn’t mean that. I just meant, well, there is a murderer in this house.

Louisa: Ah, yes. In this very room. Awkward timing. It needs to be faster and more biting.

Florence: No. Louisa. You can’t possibly believe I did this. Do you honestly think I’m capable of being a murderer? Great delivery! Remember to cheat out. The audience wants to see you!

Louisa: No. I don’t think you’re capable of finding your way out of a paper bag. But an hour ago, I didn’t think you were capable of screwing my husband, so maybe I’m not the best person to determine your capabilities.

Florence: I loved him, you know. I don’t know if that makes it better or worse, but I did.

Louisa: Ditto. Make a choice, June. Don’t bore us. What does she want to say here? What’s stopping her from actually saying it?

Florence stands and moves downstage, trying to escape Louisa’s gaze. Louisa stays put, but she does not take her eyes off of Florence. Alice needs to hit center! Mark center. Tell tech we need a spotlight here.

Florence: We were going to run away together. Take care of our baby.

Louisa: And what did your husband think about that? (beat) He knew. He knew all along, and he still cares for you. How do you do that? How do you make everyone love you? This is a shift in realization. The leveling needs to be distinct.

Florence: We don’t control who we love. I never stopped loving them. Either of them.

Louisa: Impossible. You never loved them at all. Not for a moment. You loved the attention-

Florence: But I did love them. I loved them both because they loved me. Love is reciprocation, and it is not a finite resource. But Benjamin never wanted to be a father-

Louisa: And William did. But that was never going to happen with us. Not with me. No matter how much we tried, I was just a dead-end for him. Slow this down! We’re losing this line! This is what pushes June over the edge. It’s about Louisa, but I can’t take my eyes off of Alice. June, give me a reason to pay attention to you.

Florence: I wasn’t going to say all that.

Louisa: I think you’ve said enough.

Florence: Don’t you see? Benjamin knew about all of it. He was mad, and he was capable. Hell knows no fury like the wrath of a jealous man.

Louisa approaches Florence. She takes the bottle and smashes it over Florence’s head. Florence drops to the ground, and Louisa stands over her lifeless body. June grabs the bottle on the right. Left. It NEEDS to break on stage. Hit it harder! It should only take one hit. It needs to be fast, too. Don’t think. Just do.

Louisa: Oh, Florence. You were so close. Hell knows no fury like a woman scorned. Or like me, for that matter. But you wouldn’t know about that. Go ahead. Sleep with your husband’s friend. Kill a man in cold blood. Burn down an entire city, for Christ’s sake. Who cares? Everyone will still love you. They’ll excuse your transgressions for an ounce of your love. Maybe less. You had everything. Your husband. My husband. My husband’s child. How did you do it? You said you loved them both. William and Benjamin. Maybe so, but not the same way they loved you. Not truly. Not when they gave you all their love, and they only got half of yours. Because love is not infinite. How could it be? Our love dies with us, growing as cold as our lifeless bodies until there is nothing left to give. (beat) I don’t hate you, you know. You’d think I would, but I don’t. At least not the way I should hate you. In another life, we could have been friends. Sisters, even. But these men have a talent for pulling us away from each other. They lie and cheat and steal until there is nothing left of us left to give. And how do they get away with it? It happened so slowly. I didn’t even realize until- Until now. But once the egg is boiled, there is no use in stuffing it back up the hen to see what hatches. So here I am. And here you are. A word of friendly advice: Your biggest incompetence was underestimating my capabilities. My husband liked to do that. He thought I didn’t know, but a wife always knows. There are always hairs left in the bathroom. Perfume rubbed off on his clothes. Now he’s dead. And so are you. And by nightfall, I’ll join you. So, friend, could you offer me some reciprocal advice. What did I do it for? The delivery is okay. When Alice is no longer speaking, the scene loses its momentum. June needs to fill that energy. Chunk the lines. Mark the changes in emotion and tone. The intensity should only go up as the scene progresses. Mediocrity should not be the goal.

Exhibit C: Statement of June Emilia Perry as taken by Detective P.S. Johnson

I won’t lie to you. There would be no use. Everyone in that theatre saw what happened. Everything was normal at first. Normal enough for an opening night. We got through the first act relatively seamlessly. The backstage crew set the props for act two during intermission. That’s when they verify that all the props are in their correct place. The same props go in the same spot at the same angle every night. It’s like clockwork.

I was in the dressing room with the rest of the cast during intermission. Our director came in and gave us our notes. Some general advice about our performance. There were a couple of missed cues in act one. Yes, Alice and I had a small argument. It was a trivial thing. She dropped a line in one of the first scenes. The director blamed me for the discrepancy and she refused to take responsibility. I eventually convinced her to talk to him. He did not seem happy as he left the conversation. In fact, he seemed rather irritated. Of course, I was also irritated. The situation was irritating. And it was not an isolated incident. Alice can always get away with stuff when she wants. Do you know how some people wear rose-colored spectacles? Alice lives in a rose-colored bubble. No matter what she does, it is never her fault. Everyone just watches her and loves her and praises her while the rest of us are just waiting to be let in.

The argument was over when act two arrived. We didn’t have time for grudges. I was waiting in the wings for my cue. I watched a scene between Benjamin and the detective- that’s Matthew Wilson and Jared Fischer. Benjamin realizes that the signature on the will does not match William’s signature on other documents. William is my late husband. I mean Louisa’s late husband. In the show. Benjamin and the detective have this whodunnit realization and exit the stage to arrest me. But they are too late. That’s when I enter with Florence. I’m pissed off. She screwed my late husband, and her husband still wants her—it’s the rose-colored bubble. Yes, I’m still referring to myself as Louisa. I apologize—old habits.

When you’re on stage, it’s not a backseat ride. This is an emotional scene. And I feel every emotion alongside Louisa. No, I didn’t think to double-check the sugar-glass bottle. Mostly because I was focused on my performance, but also because it’s not my job to check. That’s why the crew sets the props. So I grabbed the bottle on the right and hit Florence over the head. That’s how we’ve rehearsed it. I’ve had trouble breaking the bottles before. The director really wanted it to break so I thought I’d try again when it didn’t. I hit hard. So hard that the glass broke in my hand. The real glass, not the sugar kind. Although I didn’t realize it then. I was just so caught up in the moment. I needed it to break.

When the scene finished, the audience was standing and cheering for me. It was a beautiful moment. One of the most beautiful moments in my life. I almost didn’t notice the blood trickling down my fingers. The hot liquid dropped onto Alice’s face. It almost looked like a lipstick smudge, but her eyes were open. She had this gaze focused on nothing, no images forming in her pupils. That’s when I knew something was wrong.

But then I looked up. Our director was in the front row, standing alongside the crowd. And he was looking at me. For once, I was enough. For once, the spotlight was shining on me and I could feel its warmth on my skin. So I stepped over Florence’s body and took a final bow. She already was gone, not by any choices of my own, but by circumstances outside of my control. I couldn’t be blamed for it, but I could monopolize the moment before it died with her. At that moment, everything made sense. All the rejections and hardships and humiliation meant something. I looked out at the people staring back at me. I looked at our director’s smiling face. When I looked hard enough, I swear that I saw an image of Louisa forming in his eyes.

Update on A Murder Colored in Green

By THE THEATRICAL GAZETTE

The trial for June Emilia Perry recently came to a close. Perry originated the role of Louisa in A Murder Colored in Green. During opening night, a so-called prop malfunction caused the death of her fellow castmate. Foul play was suspected as her convincing performance shocked and thrilled the audience. The jury was on the edge of their seats after documents surfaced revealing the questionable placement of the deadly prop and the long-standing animosity between Perry and her late castmate. The jury ultimately found Perry guilty of first-degree premeditated murder. This conviction was short-lived as Perry had a heart attack on the stand. The courtroom was frantic as medical assistance quickly entered the room, but their attempts to save Perry’s life were futile. She had already died in front of the courtroom.

Darien Scott was present for the sentencing. He stood in the back of the trial, feverishly watching Perry take the stand and ultimately perish. Scott denied our requests for an interview, but fans of the show have noted his possibly overlooked involvement in Perry’s case. Gossip about his intimate relationship with the deceased coupled with his strange notes about the bottle’s placement has raised questions for some fans, but the state has not seriously considered investigating his involvement. Scott is most well-known for his direction of A Murder Colored in Green, for which he has won several directorial awards. The play has had unprecedented success after its dark origins led to a cult following. These fans have been at the forefront of Perry’s case, pleading her innocence on online forums. This is not the only time fans have created noise about this play. Recent rumors about a Broadway run were quickly destroyed when fans took to the internet to demand performances in the original theatre. Tickets sell at least two years in advance, and they start at $700 for nosebleed seating. This trial is bound to increase these wait times and prices, so buy your tickets before it is too late.