by Ben Tyler
“No hablo inglés,” Jim said, annoyed by the polysyllabic legalese. “Speekee de Ing-gee, por favor?”
“Then what’s ‘hostile environment’ sexual harassment,” Owen asked, ignoring Jim’s comment to Fitterman.
Fitterman replied, “It has the similar language as quid pro quo but adds; ‘Sexual harassment when such conduct has the purpose or effect of unreasonably interfering with an individual’s work performance or creating an intimidating, hostile, or offensive working environment.’”
“What determines if the harassment is considered hostile?” Rusty asked, passing the tureen of paella to his guests.
Accepting the bowl and taking an extra-large serving and two more tamales, Fitterman continued: “The court obviously has to look at a number of factors to determine if the environment is hostile. First, whether the conduct was verbal or physical or both. Second, how frequently it occurred. Third, whether the conduct was really hostile and patently offensive. Four, whether the alleged harasser was a coworker or supervisor. Then there’s whether others joined in perpetrating the harassment and if the harassment was directed at more than one individual. An assessment is made upon the totality of the circumstances.”
“I like the one that asks if others joined in perpetrating the harassment,” Owen said. “That in itself should sink Shari and Cy.”
“Not so fast,” Fitterman commanded. “It’s never been possible to find Sterling legally responsible for harassment by a supervisor. Their legal muscle and their brand-name value make unenlightened jurors sympathetic to the company.”
Fitterman continued: “The U.S. Equal Opportunities Commission says, and I’m quoting one of their releases, ‘An employer is always responsible for harassment by a supervisor that culminated in a tangible employment action. If the harassment did not lead to a tangible employment action, the employer is liable unless it proves that it exercised reasonable care to prevent and promptly correct any harassment and the employee unreasonably failed to complain to management or to avoid harm otherwise.’ You know full well that Sterling has a zero-tolerance policy.”
“In English, puhl-ese!” Jim begged.
“Sorry,” Fitterman said. “Simply, an individual qualifies as a ‘supervisor’ if he has the authority to make decisions affecting the employee or direct the employee’s daily work activities.”
“That’s me, basically,” Owen said, dismayed. “‘Tangible employment action’ means I had the authority to change an employee’s status, like hiring, firing, promotions, demotions, change in benefits compensation, and all that, which I did.”
“In our situation it has to do with Owen’s—and Shari’s and Cy’s, too—ability to fire or demote a subordinate because he or she makes sexual demands. We’ll get into all the stuff about Owen and Bart’s failure to complain about harassment because of legitimate fear of retaliation when we get to trial. But remember, that guy they’ve got lined up to testify against Owen can use the same excuse—fear—for not going to his supervisor, namely, Shari.”
“I’m so bored,” Jim said. “Let’s get to the good stuff, like how much money we’ll make when we win.”
“This is by no stretch of the imagination a win-win situation,” Fitterman barked. “How can I make it more clear that I will be working extremely hard on behalf of Owen and Bart to bring Shari Draper down, along with Cy Lupiano and all of Sterling, Inc. But this is a steep, uphill battle, gentlemen. Sterling has never lost a sexual-harassment case. They usually settle out of court. What makes this worse is that it is a sexual-harassment case involving males only,” he emphasized. “This is going to be a complicated procedure. I need each of you to fully cooperate. If you think Shari has a hair-trigger temper, wait’ll you meet the studio’s chief counsel. It’s going to be messy.
“However, thanks to the recordings Bart made of his so-called rehearsals with Shari, along with the documentation from Jim’s notes from when he was in jail, plus corroboration and testimony from dozens of witnesses, we’ve amassed a substantial amount of evidence proving Shari and Cy are more than the gutter-variety Hollywood crooks and snake-oil salesmen. But you all stand a good chance of losing this trial—and being embarrassed. Your careers and reputations may be destroyed,” Fitterman argued.
“Oh, don’t spoil this by dashing our dreams for revenge even before the trial begins,” Rod pleaded.
“Where’s Ling Woo when you need a deviant litigator,” Mitch said. “No offense, Fitterman. I was just thinking out loud.” He then suggested they all adjourn to the living room for tea or coffee.
“There isn’t anyone in the legal business better than Gus,” Owen said. “He’s never lost a case, and he’s not going to lose this one. We’ve got to be one hundred percent positive that the system will work. Bart and I are completely innocent of all charges and allegations, and Gus is the only man I know who can topple Shari and Cy and Sterling Studios. There’s no fooling around here, guys. This is the most terrifying thing that’s ever happened to me and to Bart. No way are we paying with our careers and reputations—as many before us have done—just because Shari and Cy hate queers—”
“We’re fighting evil here,” Bart interrupted. “Those two maggots are afraid of Owen’s creativity and intelligence.”
“And yours, too,” Rusty interjected, looking at Bart.
Jim spoke up in a conciliatory tone. “I’m sorry that I’ve been so self-absorbed. Of course, I’ll do whatever needs to be done to help you guys. Since I’ll be helping myself, too.”
“We’re with you all the way,” Rod said. “I’m sorry, too, that Jim and I keep bickering like George Costanza’s parents. I know how important this trial is. No more animosity.” He looked at Jim. “Okay?”
Sheepishly, Jim looked back at Rod. Just feasting his eyes on the sight of this kid in his tank-top shirt with his bronze muscles and gang tattoos on display seemed to give Jim an immediate hard-on. “Absolutely. I’m sorry, too.”
Rusty smiled. “Okay, then,” Rusty said, relief in his voice. “Who wants coffee or tea? You all go into the entertainment room. Bart and I will be along.”
“Don’t forget the after-dinner mints,” Mitch chirped.
Chapter Twenty-One
Rusty and Bart retreated to the kitchen. When they returned to their guests, they each carried a tray. Bart’s held China cups and saucers and silver spoons and napkins. Rusty’s was burdened with two silver serving pots, one filled with decaf, the other with hot water, and a selection of herbal teas.
“If no one has any objections, let’s begin the entertainment with Bart’s tapes,” Fitterman said, dropping his ample girth into a love seat and taking up much of the space. “Rusty,” he said, “would you do the honors?”
Rusty finished pouring hot water over a bag of peppermint tea in Bart’s cup. He set the pot back down onto the tray and reached for a cassette tape Fitterman was holding out with his right hand. Rusty went to the stereo unit, hidden behind accordion-like doors of a home-theater unit that occupied one entire wall of the living room. He opened a panel that revealed all the latest electronic home media toys, including a cassette tape player. He inserted the cassette and activated the sound equipment.
“At long last, I’m finally going to get a sample of what’s been going on behind Shari’s closed doors all these years,” Mitch said, as if he weren’t a master of eavesdropping, especially on his boss.
Every secretary at any company who has been in his or her position for any period of time knows more than their boss would prefer about the boss’s personal life. More than one wife has used her husband’s assistant to document his cheating double life and corroborate facts and evidence when it came to getting courts to cough up juicy divorce settlements.
In fact, Mitch had already come to Bart and Owen’s aid and given a sworn statement to Fitterman detailing countless criminal acts and atrocities committed by Shari.
It wasn’t the little stuff that mattered to Fitterman, such as charging expensive gifts for
herself and friends at Tiffany’s and expensing the baubles to the overhead accounts for various films. The big stuff that only Mitch could offer had to do with where the proverbial bodies were buried in and around Hollywood. Overnight sensations disappeared into the Enquirer’s “Dead or Alive” column. Usually the column had household names that hadn’t been seen for a couple of years, like: Bob Newhart. Dead or Alive? Gavin MacLeod. Dead or Alive? Susan Saint James. Dead or Alive? Where did the lesser stars go after one hit sitcom or box-office blockbuster? It seemed only a few insiders, including Shari, knew. Arlene Golonka. Dead or Alive? Mark Goddard. Dead or Alive? Jim Fallon. Dead or Alive?
But Owen’s and Bart’s bodies weren’t about to stay dead, thanks to Mitch. Fitterman was also in a position to exhume more than a few others.
What the group heard on the tape was a less than perfectly clear recording of all the contemptible things Shari had said about Owen. The audio was distorted at times. Bart had turned on his microcassette tape recorder and dropped it into his pants pocket just before entering Shari’s office each time he was summoned to meet with her. In the mind’s eye of each listener, they could imagine Bart arriving at the dreaded “black corner,” which is what Shari’s office was affectionately referred to as. At the beginning of the tape they could hear her instruct him to be seated. They imagined his taking one of the chairs facing her desk. The recorder picked up the end of a one-sided phone conversation she was having with Cy Lupiano; at least that’s who Bart presumed she was speaking to.
“No one held a gun to Mare Dickerson’s head to do this fucking movie,” Shari snarled. “Yeah, the director found out. I heard he stormed into Mare’s trailer and shouted, ‘I just want you to know that I’m proud of everything I’ve done. Even this!’ Mare’d invited the cast and crew to watch a soft-porn tape starring their director. His younger years. Had to earn a living when he first come to Hollywood.”
Silence, briefly, while Shari listens to Cy. Then: “Don’t ask me! I don’t know where Mare dug it up. Just somewhere. Moi?” Shari exclaimed in a false stage insult. “You can’t imagine I’d want to embarrass that loathsome director, can you? Anyway, isn’t Mare a hoot? We should find another film for her. Just wanted you to know. I gotta go. That Bart guy’s here. Yeah. We’re going to go over the lines. Not to worry.”
As the men listened, more than once throughout the playback Bart found himself apologizing to Owen for the attacks on his character that Shari had forced him to recite.
“Pffft.” Owen dismissed Bart’s attempt to apologize. “This is exactly what will end her reign of terror in Hollywood. Don’t apologize. Remember, you did this to help me. We’ll put the bitch away for good.”
“Perhaps she’ll get lucky and have Patsy Ramsey for a cellmate,” Rod said.
An hour later, after it was many times positively obvious that Shari and Cy had committed fraud by planning to falsely accuse Owen of sexual indiscretions, the group took a break before agreeing to continue on to hear what Jim’s book had to reveal.
Fitterman extricated himself from the love seat, stood up, and waddled to the center of the room. In his best legal-eagle-sounding voice he began to read a prepared synopsis of several chapters from Jim’s book. “Mind you, this is abridged material. The full text will be used when Shari takes the stand at Owen’s trial. The hoped-for result is that it will so damage her credibility that Owen will be exonerated and Bart’s lawsuit will not be contested by Sterling. This is just a sample, but here goes.”
Jim was all smiles as the audience of Bart, Rusty, Owen, Rod, and Mitch listened to Fitterman, who exposed one hell of a shocker:
“This is from chapters seven through twelve.
“‘Back in the early 1970s, an asshole named Don Simpson was incarcerated in the same jail in Alaska where I was serving six months. His charge: attempted murder. Mine: possession of cocaine for sale. You might have guessed it; this is the same Don Simpson who was the future Hollywood Bad Boy mogul.
“‘Then along came a tough little guy named Larry. Larry Burton. He was charged with assaulting his boyfriend. You got it—his boyfriend.
“‘There aren’t any secrets in prison, let me tell you. And it was well known—and proven—that Larry was more than halfway through a transgender operation. His so-called boyfriend was a real thug and loser who had been sharing a tiny trailer as a home with Larry. One day he decided life was too dull with a fey Alaska Bell telephone operator, which Larry was at the time. So he found himself a husky—not the breed of dog but a beer-chugging lumberjack—and kicked Larry’s sorry ass out of their one-room aluminum-shell hellhole of a traveling house. Larry didn’t think that so bad except the creep also reneged on his promise to pay for the final operation that would make Larry the woman he always knew he was inside.
“‘Larry was livid. In a premeditated attack, he sneaked up on his beer-bellied ex—who at the time was jacking off at the little sink-urinal in the trailer-home. Larry wanted to start his boyfriend out on the road to the same operation that he was promised. He took a lame swing at him with a wood-handled hatchet. But the boyfriend lunged to the other side of the trailer in the nick of time. The blade sliced the Formica in which their little sink was built. Then the ax-wielding maniac had another go at the scum he had supported on his meager Alaska Bell salary. This time Larry got a good chunk off the fat ass of his b/f. But the genitals were still intact. When the lumberjack arrived, he beat the shit out of Larry and called the sheriff.
“‘Long story short, while in prison, Don Simpson, who adopted me the day I arrived, decided he liked the new boy, Larry, better. I ended up being passed around to the other inmates like a blond marine with a twelve-inch dick at a Barry Diller pool party. I’ve always been very popular.
“‘Don didn’t have to exercise much force to make Larry his new steady. Although they hated each other at the start, they were cut from the same cloth. They may have been oil and water, but each came to respect the other’s devious natures.
“‘The fact that Larry was almost a complete woman was a godsend to Don. Although he would poke his pecker into any hole he could find—and I wasn’t the only one who suffered the indignity of that pig’s oinking and boinking—Don enjoyed Larry’s combination of breasts and penis. He actually got off on semiman sex.
“‘ think it’s ironic that the future lunatic Hollywood mogul who was so infamous in so many ways, among which was his seduction of a revolving carousel of female secretaries and starlets, would get off sucking on cellmate Larry. But as I’ve said earlier, he was a common barnyard pig. Slop was slop. And those two were both USDA-certified swill.
“‘Don actually promised Larry he’d eventually get him all the right anatomical equipment he needed. I’ll say this about Don; you couldn’t turn your back on him and trust him not to fuck you—literally and figuratively. But when he decided to come through for you, he did. He could be generous. Don and Larry became inseparable.
“‘Then, one day, a second-unit Hollywood film crew came to Anchorage to shoot exteriors for a remake of Alaska Gold Fever. Don, Larry, and I were loaned out and assigned as “atmosphere.” Nothing more than extras on the set. Our job was to hang around, pretending to be walking past the local turn-of-the-century bank or the grocery store or the courthouse, all of which were just flimsy façades.
“‘After weeks of excellent behavior and befriending the transportation coordinator and the first assistant director, Don and Larry slipped out of town with the crew as soon as the last frame of film was shot. Those bastards deserted me. Eventually they ended up where most of the world’s cons end up: in Hollywood. I promised I’d get even.’”
Jim’s text went on to detail that it wasn’t long after Don moved to L.A. that he began his meteoric rise in the film biz. He had bullied his way into the studio system. He knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy, and in no time he became what all schoolyard thugs become: senior executives at a movie studio. In this case, Simpson landed at Paramount Pictures, where he
got an office in the old DeMille Building. He started taking credit for making American Gigolo, Urban Cowboy, Little Darlings, An Officer and a Gentleman, and 48HRS. He conveniently forgot about the directors.
“His real talent was for humiliating underlings and whores, which was practically an oxymoron in his office, and screwing a succession of secretaries and taking credit for everybody’s good ideas. The whole town—not just the studio—was petrified of Don. He loved the power. It made him feel that it didn’t matter that he only had a fat four-and-a-half-inch dick.
“He then teamed with a beady-eyed, huge-overbite director from the world of commercial advertising named Jerry “the Velvet Scalpel” Bruckheimer. Together they produced Flashdance. Despite the film’s overall negative reviews, it became a monster hit, raking in millions of dollars in worldwide grosses, as did their subsequent films.
“Simpson was a dichotomy. On the one hand, he was loyal only to the gods of money, power, pussy, Valium, Thorazine, Vicodin, diphen-hydramine, lithium, Xanax, promethazine, cocaine, and scotch.”
“Say that again ten times fast,” Mitch blurted out, interrupting the hanging-on-every-word oration.
Fitterman cleared his throat. “‘But he also had a soft spot for the time he spent incarcerated with Larry Burton,’” Fitterman continued. “The drug-induced, self-indulgent, all-black-jeans-wearing fatso tyrant kept his promise and paid for Larry’s final operation.’
“So,” Fitterman said, taking off his eyeglasses and continuing extemporaneously. “The old male Larry Burton debuted as a new but not necessarily improved female.” Fitterman paused. “Any guesses who Larry became?”
“Bea Arthur!” Mitch erupted.
“Elaine Stritch?” Rusty toyed with the idea.