Authors: Douglas Kennedy
‘Yes.’
‘Fine. Expect it all tomorrow morning. And what should I do about any calls for you?’
‘Have there been any calls?’
‘Fifteen this morning. The
LA Times
, the
Hollywood Reporter,
the
New York Times
, the
Seattle Times,
the
San Francisco Chronicle,
the
San Jose Mercury
, the
Boston Globe . . .
’
‘I get the idea,’ I said.
‘Shall I e-mail you the list and all their contact numbers?’
‘No.’
‘So if anyone from the press wants to contact you . . . ’
‘Tell them I’m uncontactable.’
‘If that’s your decision . . . ’
‘Jennifer, what’s with the Ice Age routine . . . ?’
‘How do you expect me to act? Your departure means I’ve been given a week’s notice . . . ’
‘Oh Jesus . . . ’
‘Please – no platitudes.’
‘I don’t know what to say, except I’m sorry. This is all as much a surprise to me as it is . . . ’
‘How can it be a surprise when you stole stuff?’
‘I never intended . . . ’
‘What? To get caught? Well, thanks for catching me in your web too.’
And she slammed the phone down.
I hung up. I put my head in my hands. Whatever the huge personal damage I had suffered, it appalled me to think that I had unknowingly inflicted vast collateral damage on two innocent parties. It was appalling to think that fifteen journalists were chasing me for quotes. Because now I was
real news
– the great television success story who threw it all away. Or, at least, that’s the spin they’d put on it. My side of the story played successfully last week. Now, however, with all this new trivial evidence (but evidence nonetheless), the tide would turn, the spin would change. I’d be held up as an example of a talented man besieged by self-destructive
forces; a guy who’d created one of the most original television series of the last ten years, but
still
had to rob lines from other writers. And there would be the usual palaver about me being yet another victim of Tinseltown’s ferocious cult of shallow success, blah, blah, blah.
The bottom line of all this editorial coverage would be a simple one: I’d be permanently unemployable as a writer.
I glanced at my watch. One-fourteen. I called Alison’s office. Her assistant, Suzy, answered. She sounded genuinely upset. Before I could ask for my agent, she said, ‘I just want to tell you this: I think what’s happening to you is totally unfair.’
I gulped and felt my eyes sting.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘How are you doing?’
‘Not good.’
‘You coming over?’
‘Yeah – right away.’
‘Good – she’s expecting you.’
‘Any chance I could talk to her now?’
‘She’s on the phone with FRT.’
‘See you in a half-hour then.’
When I walked in the door of her office, I caught sight of Alison sitting behind her desk, staring silently out the window, looking war-weary and preoccupied. Hearing me enter, she swivelled around and walked out from behind her desk and put her arms around me and simply held me for a minute or so. Then she walked over to a cabinet and opened it.
‘Does Scotch work for you?’ she asked.
‘It’s that bad?’
She said nothing. Instead, she returned to the desk with the bottle of J&B, and two glasses. She poured each of us a large one. Then she lit up a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and tossed back half the drink. I followed suit.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Here it goes. I’ve never lied to you as an agent and I’m not going to start now. The situation right now is about as bad as it gets.’
I threw back the rest of my drink. She refilled it immediately.
‘Now when I read the McCall story at the airport, my first reaction was: how could Brad and Bob take this seriously . . . especially when the charges he puts forward are so fucking minor? What he’s accused you of is ridiculous. I mean, we’re into the realm of
“If I had a nickel for every writer who’s borrowed a joke.”
And the shit about the Tolstoy story is just shit. He knows it too. However, the line from the Cheever story . . . ’
‘All I can say is this: I realized it was a direct “borrow”, and one which, I also knew, would never make it on to the screen. What he got his hands on was a draft, that’s all.’
‘I know that, and you know that. The problem here is that, coupled with
The Front Page
stuff from last week . . . well, you’re a smart enough guy to figure out that . . . ’
‘Guilty or not, I’m in deep trouble.’
‘That’s the essence of it.’
‘And you’ve spoken with FRT, and they can’t be in any way persuaded . . . ?’
‘Not a chance. As far as they’re concerned, you’re burnt toast. But that’s not all. As soon as I landed I spent an hour engaged in a screaming match with one of their lawyers. It
seems that they are going to do their best to block any golden parachute for you.’
Worse and worse. ‘But there’s a clause . . . ’
‘Oh yes,’ Alison said, pulling a file towards her, ‘there is definitely a fucking clause. Clause 43b, to be precise, of your agreement with FRT – and the gist of this clause is that if you have done anything illegal or criminally malfeasant in relation to the show, your future profit participation in its proceeds will be curtailed.’
‘They’re trying to say that I’ve done something criminally malfeasant?’
‘They’re attempting to cut you off from any future creator fees by arguing that your plagiarism constitutes an illegal act . . . ’
‘This is such bullshit.’
‘Absolutely – but they are determined to make it stick.’
‘Can they?’
‘I’ve just spent the last half-hour on the phone with my lawyer. He’s going to look carefully at the contract tonight. But his gut instinct is . . . yeah, they can make this one stick.’
‘So there’ll be no compensation?’
‘Worse than that . . . they have also informed me that they plan to sue you for the writing fees for the three episodes in which you allegedly plagiarized.’
‘What are they trying to do? Disembowel me?’
‘Absolutely. Because, let’s face it, the money involved is serious. If they get rid of your creator fees, they’re saving themselves around three hundred and fifty thousand per season. And if, as expected, the show runs a couple more seasons . . . well, do the math. For each of the three
episodes, you are due one hundred and fifty thousand. Add it all up . . . ’
‘Surely we can fight them on that point . . . ’
‘Again, my lawyer guy says they have you on the clause in which the writer guarantees all work in the script is his alone. But the way I figure it, we can probably negotiate a settlement price . . . ’
‘Which means
I
have to pay
them
back?’
‘If it comes to it, yes. My hope – and it is a hope – is that, in a few days, when everything cools down, they’ll forget chasing you for the three episodes, if they know they’ve won the creator fees argument.’
‘You’re going to let them win that?’
‘David, when have I ever
let
some shithead studio or network win anything against one of my clients? But we have a situation. Legalistically, you are
perceived
to have broken the terms of your contract. And if my $375-an-hour guy – who knows every damn loophole in the Hollywood legal book – tells me they’ve got you hog-tied, we’re into the realm of trying to minimize the wreckage as much as possible.
‘But I will get a second – and maybe even a third – legal opinion before talking to FRT’s shysters again . . . let alone their slimy counterparts at Warners.’
‘Can I have another Scotch?’
‘I think that’s a good idea,’ she said, ‘because I have some other difficult news.’
I poured myself a double. ‘Go on,’ I said.
‘Some legal eagle from Warner Brothers was just on to me. They’re putting
Breaking and Entering
into turnaround . . . ’
‘You mean, the meeting with Nagel is scrapped?’
‘I’m afraid so. But it gets worse. They want the entire signature fee back.’
‘That’s insane. How can they do that?’
‘They’re screwing you on that John Cheever line you borrowed . . . ’
‘Come on. I was just trying the line out. In a
first
draft . . . ’
‘Hey, you don’t have to sell
me
your position. The problem is that, like FRT, they’re using that line to beat you over the head with the “writer guarantees all work in the script is his alone” clause. The other problem is, they’ve got corroboration . . . even though most of those assholes don’t even know who John Cheever is.’
‘Well, at least the Fleck script will cover those debts.’
She lit up another cigarette, even though there was one already burning in her ashtray.
‘I’m afraid Fleck’s lawyer called me this afternoon . . . ’
‘Please don’t tell me . . . ’
‘“With regret, Mr Fleck cannot proceed with any further negotiations, owing to the current state of Mr Armitage’s professional reputation.” That’s an exact quote, I’m afraid.’
I stared down at the floor. And said, ‘Then there’s no way I can pay back the two hundred and fifty grand to Warners.’
‘Is it already spent?’
‘A lot of it, yeah.’
‘But you’re not broke?’
‘I may be dumb, but I’m not stupid. I’ve got around half a million invested with my broker. The problem is, half of that is owed to Uncle Sam. And if FRT and Warners want all their money back . . . then I am broke.’
‘Let’s not go to the abyss just as yet. I will play hardball with the bastards. I will get them to lower their demands on the payback. Meantime, you better talk to your broker and your accountant about how best to maximize what you still have invested . . . ’
‘Because I’m washed up in this town, right?’
‘It’s going to be difficult finding you work.’
‘And say this thing doesn’t blow over? If I’m permanently tainted by it, what then?’
‘Honestly?’ Alison asked.
‘Absolutely.’
‘I don’t know. But, once again, let’s see how the next few weeks play out. More to the point, you need to make a statement, in which you defend your corner, but also regret what’s gone down. I’ve called Mary Morse – a PR gal I know. She’s going to be over here in about ten minutes, to work out the statement with you, and to get it out to all concerned, so at least they have your angle on everything. If things don’t improve in a few days’ time, we’re going to have to find a sympathetic journalist, who can tell your side of the story.’
‘Well, that guy from
Variety
is definitely out of the frame, now that his career is fucked too. And poor Tracy . . . ’
‘That wasn’t your fault.’
‘Yeah, but if it hadn’t been for this mess of mine . . . ’
‘Look – they’re both professionals, and they should have known that their past involvement might go public if . . . ’
‘She was just trying to protect me.’
‘True – but that was her job. You can’t beat yourself up over their problems as well. You’ve got more than enough trouble on your plate.’
‘Don’t I know it.’
By the next morning, the entire world knew about it as well. McCall’s accusations hit the streets. So too did FRT’s press release, announcing (with regret,
natch
) my dismissal from the series. All the major national papers carried it on their arts and entertainment section, though the
LA Times
put the story on its front page. Worse yet, the tale also merited coverage on NPR’s
All Things Considered
,
Entertainment Tonight
, and most of the early morning talk shows. Yes, everyone quoted from my statement – where I apologized for the upset caused to FRT and everyone involved in
Selling You
, and again said that I really didn’t think I could stand accused of theft because of a mere couple of lines. ‘The worst thing a writer can be accused of is theft,’ I wrote in the statement, ‘and I certainly don’t consider myself a thief.’
That night, on HBO’s
Real Time
, the host, Bill Maher, noted during his monologue:
‘The big news in Hollywood today is that
Selling You
creator, David Armitage, used the famous Richard Nixon
I am not a crook
defense, after FRT sacked him for plagiarism. When asked whether everything he wrote was 100 per cent original, he said: “I did not have sex with that woman . . . ”’
Maher got a big laugh with that one-liner. I watched his show alone in the loft. Sally was in Seattle, at an address unknown, as she hadn’t left the name of her hotel, nor had she phoned me all day. I knew that she usually stayed at the Four Seasons when visiting the Seattle set, but I feared that if I phoned her, I’d be appearing far too needy, far too desperate. Right now, my one hope was that, once the initial blitzkrieg of bad publicity died down, she’d remember all
the reasons why we fell in love with each other in the first place, and would . . .
What? Come running back to me, telling me she’d stand by me, no matter what? Like Lucy? She’d stood by me . . . begrudgingly sometimes, but she was always there nonetheless. For all those years, when I was nowhere, and she was forced into telemarketing when her acting career failed and we needed to pay the rent. How did I repay her steadfastness? By doing the predictable mid-life, post-big-breakthrough thing. No wonder she so despised me. No wonder I was so scared now. Because I was finally admitting what I had known within months of moving in with Sally: her love for me was predicated on my success, my status within the entertainment community, and (in turn) the way it enhanced her own position within that High School With Money called Hollywood.
‘
Everyone has their moment,
’ she said just before I won the Emmy Award. ‘
This is ours
.’
Not anymore, babe.
Could everything I’d achieved in a few fast years be asset-stripped from me in a matter of days?
Come on people – I’m David Armitage!
I felt like shouting from the nearest rooftop. But, then again, once you’re on a rooftop, the only destination is down. Anyway, in Hollywood (as in life) all talent is ephemeral, expendable. Even those at the top of the pile were subject to this law of replication. No one out here was unique. We all played the same game. And the game operated according to one basic rule: your moment lasted for as long as your moment lasted . . . if, that is, you were lucky enough to have a moment at all.