Butterfly (49 page)

have a good slingshot for the meeting tomorrow morning.

Well, it was really what she had expected. She had known from the start that it would be

a no-win case for her client. According to Latricia’s contract, the studio literally owned her

and could do anything they wanted with her. She was technically an unknown actress; they

could even kill off her character if they wanted to. There was no fight, then, so why had

Jessica agreed to take on the case, knowing that there was no guarantee of a cash settlement?

Because, as Latricia had so passionately said to her, there comes a time when someone’s

just got to stop and turn around and fight. And Jessica just couldn’t resist the challenge.

When her father picked up the remote control and turned on the forty-one-inch Sony

TV, Jessica looked at him. Yes, she thought, there comes a time when you have to stand

up for what is right. Had she sat down and really examined her motives for helping

Latricia Brown without the expectation of being paid, Jessica might have seen something

significant in her siege against Barry Greene and the studio. She might also have

expanded her vision and seen why she so enjoyed litigation and a good courtroom fight.

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211

It was because that was the one arena in which she could stand up and be heard, and

maybe even win. Opposing counselors were surrogates for father and priests and a hus-

band she had never been able to stand up to.

She looked away from her father and was surprised to see the handsome face of Danny

Mackay fill the TV screen. His Gospel singers were belting out an energetic hymn while

he smiled beneficently at America.

She turned to her mother. “Since when have you two been watching Danny Mackay?”

“We started about—”

“He’s a good man,” Jim Mulligan said. “The Reverend stands for honesty and decency

in this country, and I’m all for him.”

“But, Dad. He claims he talks to God!”

“So did Jimmy Carter. And so did Franklin Roosevelt, for that matter.”

“Good grief, Dad. This man is dangerous! Pretending that Danny Mackay is just fol-

lowing an old tradition in politics is pure sophistry. It’s one thing to turn to prayerful or

meditative thought when in doubt about something, but quite something else to claim

certain knowledge of God’s desires—”

“Helen, the picture still isn’t coming in clear. Did you call the cable company today

like I told you to?”

Jessica looked at her mother. Mrs. Mulligan avoided her daughter’s eye.

The three settled back into silk-screened Navajo pillows to watch Danny Mackay

shout out his sermon. Jessica didn’t care for the man. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but

there was something about him she didn’t like. His smile looked genuine enough, and he

spoke with heart. But he wore very expensive suits and surrounded himself with big men

with crew cuts who looked more like bodyguards than religious disciples.

On his evening show, which differed from his daily morning
Good News Hour,

Reverend Danny always had a guest, a personality whose life had in some way been

changed by the Lord. Tonight it was a well-known fashion designer from New York. In

front of two and a half million people the man confessed his sin of homosexuality and

said that Jesus had straightened him out. It was a very dramatic witnessing, ending up

with the Gospel singers clustering protectively around the poor man while he and

Reverend Danny sobbed on each other’s shoulders.

Jessica had never watched Danny Mackay’s evening show, but she had heard of it

because it was the first of its kind to be broadcast during prime time and because it was

steadily climbing in the ratings. She wouldn’t have thought that such a Christian

Fundamentalist program would find so large an audience. And yet…

She looked at her parents, who were staring intently at the screen. Catholics, both of

them.

Jessica looked back at Reverend Danny. There was no doubt about it, he possessed a

certain charisma. She leaned forward, cradling her coffee cup between her hands, and

gazed at the spectacle on the TV screen. It was incredibly theatrical, but there was a basic

human pathos in those embraces and tears that touched even Jessica’s skeptical heart. It

was no wonder, she decided, that the man was doing unexpectedly well in the polls. She

wouldn’t be surprised if he won the New Hampshire primary next week.

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Kathryn Harvey

As the telephone number of Reverend Danny’s Houston headquarters was being

flashed on the screen, Jessica stood up abruptly and said, “I have to leave now.”

Her mother looked stricken. “But we haven’t had dessert yet, dear.”

“Don’t force her,” Jim Mulligan said, clicking off the TV set. “Jessica, you need to

exercise more. Why don’t you ever go jogging with John?”

Her mother walked her out to the Cadillac. The desert night was freezing; the stars

were like ice splashed across the sky, as if snowy Mt. Jacinto had erupted. “We don’t see

enough of you,” Mrs. Mulligan said as she offered a cheek to be kissed. “Now, your sister

Bridget, she and those kids are here almost every week. And do they exhaust me!”

Jessica got into her car and started the engine. “Drive carefully, dear,” Helen Mulligan

said. “One last thing. Do you think you could get Ariel Dubois’s autograph for me?”

As she turned off Bob Hope Drive and onto the highway, Jessica pressed the accelerator.

She was suddenly anxious to get home. She gripped the steering wheel and urged the car to

go faster, faster. Because she had suddenly come up with an idea, a weapon for tomorrow

morning. If it worked, Barry Greene was going to be in for the surprise of his life.

Latricia Brown was gorgeous. Her new thinness made her look taller than before, and

now that she was cornrowing her hair, she did indeed look like an African princess. She

walked with a certain pride; there was a new crispness to her step that hadn’t been visible in

the old “Nurse Washington” of a few months ago. It was no wonder that she was starting

to receive fan mail and the writers of the show wanted to create more of her part. She was

damned if she was going to let that bitch Ariel have her swept under the carpet, as had hap-

pened with so many other unknown actresses. Latricia was fighting this fight not only for

herself but for exploited actors and actresses everywhere, and for her own black race.

She just hoped Jessica Franklin could find a way to win the case for her. But the odds

were definitely not in her favor. Neither was the law.

“Let me see your contract,” Jessica had said to Latricia on their first meeting a month

ago. “If we can, we’ll fight them on the basis of termination without cause.” Jessica had

used other legal phrases—wrongful discharge, sex discrimination, “good faith” clauses,

adhesion terms—in explaining to Latricia the different ways the case might go. And then,

two days later, when Latricia had brought in her contract and Jessica had studied it, the

legal terms changed to boilerplate clauses, tenuous cause of action, words that summed

up one phrase: Latricia didn’t have a leg to stand on.

And yet, to Latricia’s enormous surprise, Jessica Franklin had agreed to take on the

case. “Listen,” she had said in all honesty, “I don’t think we’ll win. But you may profit

from the publicity, and so will my firm.” The first thing they had done was issue a press

statement. “Public sentiment is going to go with you,” Jessica had told Latricia. “We

might not have any bargaining power legally, but it’s possible we could get the studio to

back down because of the bad press this is going to bring them.”

It hadn’t worked. The very first dialogue between Jessica and Barry Greene had shown

the two women how the fight was going to go—totally in his favor.

The reception area of Jessica’s office was quiet and subdued. Once the heavy doors

swung closed on the noisy Strip, somber silence greeted the visitor. The carpet was thick,

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213

the furniture deep and dark, the brass well polished, the wood oiled and lemony. The

receptionist, a young man in his early twenties who kept his nose in law books when not

filing or typing, rose to meet Ms. Brown and escort her into Jessica’s office.

The two shook hands, and then Jessica looked anxiously at the young man. “Any

phone calls yet?”

He shook his head. “I’m guarding that phone with my life, Jess. Trust me.”

“I trust you, Ken. But I’m afraid”—she frowned down at her watch—“that Latricia

and I have to get over to Barry Greene’s office. Now listen, think of that phone call as a

matter of life and death. You call me the minute you get it. I’ll be in a meeting, but have

them pull me out.”

Ken gave her an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry, Jess. I want that phone call to come

through as badly as you do.”

She winked. She had promised him a job in the firm after graduation from law school

in three months.

Barry Greene’s office was at the studio in, of course, Studio City. A light March rain

fell as Jessica took her Cadillac over Sepulveda Pass; she explained on the way to Latricia

what the phone call could mean. Latricia noticed that her attorney seemed agitated this

morning, not her usual quiet, conservative self, but nervous, her hands working the

leather steering wheel. She talked fast, almost breathlessly, and laid her foot a bit too heav-

ily on the accelerator. But as she explained this new situation Latricia felt herself become

excited as well. She had to admit it was a stroke of genius, and if they could pull it off, if

that phone call would come through in time…

They rode the elevator fifteen flights and found themselves in the outrageously glam-

orous reception area of Greene Productions. Jessica and Latricia were, of course, expected

and on time—they had set up this appointment over a week ago—but they were asked to

wait nonetheless. They sank into the deep velour chairs and declined offers of something

to drink by the secretary. They waited in tension-filled silence as the secretary worked qui-

etly at her desk, as the clock ticked relentlessly, and as the phone never rang.

Behind the enormous doors with the brass nameplate, Barry was sitting in his spacious

office going through travel brochures and trying to think of a way of persuading Dr.

Linda Markus to go away somewhere with him. He was sure she was interested in him,

that she was just playing hard to get. Barry Greene never had trouble having his way with

women, either because they were after his money, or wanted a part in one of his shows, or

simply to be able to say they had been to bed with a TV producer. Linda, so far, had not

succumbed. And that made her all the more desirable.

Greene’s secretary had informed him that Mrs. Franklin and her client were in the

waiting room. “Let them wait,” he said.

Barry figured he would let them stew for a bit, then allow them to air their com-

plaints, and finally deliver the blow. Either Brown accepts his terms or she’s out of televi-

sion all together. It was within Barry’s power to see to it that she never worked in front of

a TV camera again.

In the outer office, Jessica kept looking at her watch. She couldn’t help the tremor in

her knee. Latricia at her side, looking cool and in control, was so nervous she was

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Kathryn Harvey

beginning to feel sick. Four weeks ago she had been so angry to be told she was off the

show that she had acted on her first impulse: fury. She had gotten a lawyer and begun

the fight. But now, after four weeks of being strung along by the television moguls and

seeing their threats become more and more real, she found herself being nipped at the

heels by the dogs of doubt and insecurity.

God, maybe she
should
take their offer, if it was still open, to appear on another series.

She glanced at Jessica. The phone call was such a long shot.
If
it came at all, and
if
it

delivered what Jessica was hoping for. Two mighty big ifs for a person to base her whole

career on.

Barry Greene had gone through Hong Kong, Cancún, the Great Barrier Reef, and

Aspen when he finally scooped up all the brochures and slid them into a drawer. He

looked at the clock on the wall, which was lost among awards, plaques, letters of com-

mendation, and photographs of himself with famous people, and saw that he had kept

them waiting for twenty minutes.

He called his secretary and told her to send them in.

“Look, ladies,” Barry was saying a few minutes later, “it’s all here in black and white.

According to the contract,
which you signed,
Latricia, I have the authority to remove you

from the show.” He turned to Jessica. “And if you knew anything about contract law, you

would know that your client doesn’t have a legal leg to stand on. What mystifies me is

why you are wasting your time on this case!”

Jessica spoke calmly and slowly, trying to drag out the time. “What mystifies me, Mr.

Greene, is why you would fire an actress when it is not in the best interest of your show.