Remembering Dominick Dunne

By: Exclusive interview by Kelly Carson | Photographed by John Hildebrand | October 13, 2009 |

You were friends with Phil Spector before his trial began.  What do you think happened on the night of Feb. 3, 2003, at his castle in Alhambra?

I don’t think he brought [Lana Clarkson] home to kill her — absolutely not. Nor do I think she committed suicide — absolutely not. I think it is the same scenario that played out with the four ladies who took the stand and many others who didn’t take the stand who I know. I think the big clue was that her purse was hanging over her shoulder, a sure sign that says, “I’m going home.” And the habit with him, if he had been drinking — and he was drinking a lot that night — to keep the lady from going home was to pull a gun out on her, and so forth. Now, these stories have been going on for years and years. When I had dinner with him several times during the O.J. trial, I heard all those stories. He carried a gun when he was with me, but he never pulled it on me. Everybody said for years and years that some day the gun’s going to go off, and I think the day came.

How do you rule out Lana Clarkson’s death as suicide?

I absolutely believe her teeth were knocked out by him pushing the gun in her mouth. Beautiful women don’t shoot themselves in the face. She was beautiful; she was an actress. Whether she made it or didn’t make it, she lived off her face. Do you think she’s going to mar herself that way? No fucking way. That’s the sleeping-pill ending or jumping-out-the window ending; it’s not a beauty’s way of ending her life.

So, when you lock eyes with Spector in the courtroom, what goes through your mind?

Well, it’s mixed, I have to tell you. As I’ve said, everyone’s always said some day what is happening now was going to happen. That’s what almost everybody who knew him said after they heard that it had happened. And, you know, I know some other women whose names have not come out and who don’t want their names to come out. One is a very well known person. Two ladies were held prisoner for a couple of days in the house. That part is scary and repulsive.

A few times our eyes have caught, but nothing’s happened. But one day I went into the men’s room and there was nobody in there except Phil. He was standing at the urinal. There are three urinals, and his Edwardian frock coat was open and it billowed out so that it covered the other two urinals, so in effect all three were tied up and one with him. I stayed in the back with the sinks and I didn’t say anything. He never looked up; he just looked down. And, he goes over to the sink and washes his hands with really soapy hot water — like this kind of wash (Dunne rubs his hands vigorously) — and he goes, “Hi, Dominick.” I said “Hi, Phil.” And we talked … for about six minutes. I told him about a eulogy that Mick Jagger had given for Ahmet Ertegun, the record impresario — he was the one who introduced Phil and me — and that Phil had been mentioned in Mick’s eulogy. And, he couldn’t believe it. He whispered, “Mick mentioned me?” All of a sudden he was like a totally normal guy that still cared about his career. I gave him the whole rundown on the memorial service — which was incredible, by the way — and then he said, “Dominick you made me very happy.” And, then he turns and he leaves. Then we’re back in court, and there’s Dorothy Melvin on the stand telling her nightmare story. It was such an odd [moment]. Do you know what I mean? Because for those moments I wanted to hug him. It was like a yearning for what used to be. And it was sad, it was really sad.

You had the chance to cover Scott Peterson’s murder trial and passed. Why?

This is going to sound so awful for me to say, but I’m only interested in rich people’s cases. These are all people with money who are able to hire the best, and things are different for them. There are no two ways about it. I know our readers would agree with you. But, your association with the rich and famous goes way beyond the courts. When you lived here, you were at the core of Hollywood’s hottest social scene and were close friends with the most glamorous movie stars, like Natalie Wood, Jane Fonda, Paul Newman and Rock Hudson.

I read about your infamous beach parties. I’m sure our readers would like to know where you lived. Were your homes in Santa Monica or Malibu?

Well, both. But we didn’t own those houses. [We owned a house] in Beverly Hills, but before we bought that house, when we moved here in 1957, we rented Harold Lloyd’s beach house in Santa Monica. Harold Lloyd is one of the famous movie comics of silent film. Utterly famous. Wildly rich. That house was the first one and it was beautiful, beautiful. Peter Lawford and his wife, Pat Kennedy, were four houses down. They had Louis B. Mayer’s beach house. And, then we had a house in Malibu Colony and we had a house in Trancas. (Dunne hands me a disc titled “Malibu 1965.”) I’ll lend it to you; I won’t give it to you. It was taken by Roddy McDowall. Do you know who he is? All right (He breathes a sigh of relief). Well, we all had houses there that summer. Jane Fonda, whatever, whatever, whatever. A lot of the people you won’t know, a lot of the people you will know. It’s only 20 minutes. And my wife is in it, my daughter’s in it — there are such cute moments of her in this. Anyway, it’s just Malibu.

What were your golden memories of Malibu?

Well, Roddy McDowall’s Sunday lunches where all these people came. He had a house about this big (He pinches his fingers together), and he would get the most famous people to come. It was incredible. It was just the most fun summer, and it was all because of those Sunday luncheons that he used to do.

Does Hollywood still hold the same magic for you that it did back in those days?

Yeah, in a way. I mean, yeah. You know, I’m 81 years old and I still get starstruck, and I hope I don’t lose that.

I sense some hesitation about Hollywood. When you left in the late ’70s, did you do it to write?

I left [L.A.], and I left a sort of failed career behind me and started my life over again in a cabin in Oregon. I never wrote until I was 50 years old and all of a sudden I thought, “Thisis what I’m supposed to be doing.” It was the first time I ever felt in my whole life that I was in step with who I am. If I’d hung out in Hollywood, I’d be doing all kinds of blow and whatever it was. Even if I hadn’t of done all that [cocaine], I would have only been a B-level movie producer, because I was never good at fighting with the front office. The idea of being on my own and writing a book and having my name on the spine was a whole new incredible feeling for me.

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