by Ben Tyler
“How about Mr. Cain?” Fitterman continued his line of questioning.
“He often works weekends, too.”
“But this was also the day of the big bash at Jim Fallon’s home. Mr. Cain did not work that Saturday.”
“I don’t keep his time card,” Shari said, sounding bored with the barrage of questions.
“Another thing I keep scratching my head over is I don’t understand why it appears you’re giving direction on the tape Mr. Cain provided? It sounds like you were setting him up as a pawn in a charade to terminate Mr. Lucas. Am I correct?”
“Objection, Your Honor!” Ward pounced. “Counsel is giving witness’s testimony!”
“Overruled. I’m as curious as Mr. Fitterman.”
“Of course not!” Shari spat. “Are you now calling me a liar?” She gave him a look that would have sent Evander Holyfield looking for his mama.
“I haven’t called you anything but Ms. Draper. It is Ms. Draper, isn’t it?”
Richard Ward leaped from his seat. “What is going on here, Your Honor? The plaintiff has stated her name and address for the record. Mr. Fitterman is just bullying her!”
Judge Carter looked at Ward. “Calm down,” he said. Then he addressed Gus Fitterman. “Mr. Fitterman, please make your point. It’s getting late.”
Shari recognized something in the wheels that were turning behind the eyes of Gus Fitterman. For the first time, she began to lose her composure. She picked up a water glass from the flat railing of the witness box. It was empty.
“Please, allow me to pour you some,” Fitterman said as Shari held out her glass. She took her time but swallowed the entire glass of water. “Are you ready to continue?”
Shari simply raised her eyebrows, then looked at Bart and at Owen with the same contempt she offered Fitterman.
“Ms. Draper. And forgive me if I use the feminine pronoun loosely.”
Once again Ward erupted from his seat. “Objection! Mr. Fitterman is being downright rude!”
“Your Honor,” Fitterman said, “I don’t wish to be rude or inconsiderate or to cause the witness undue distress. However, I submit for the record this document from a Dr. Howard Rean, noted transgender therapist.”
“Counsel for both sides approach the bench immediately,” Judge Owen called, and turned off his microphone. He grabbed the document from Fitterman and examined it thoroughly. Then he looked at Shari before handing the pages to Richard Ward and his army, all of whom looked at each other, then looked over at Shari. She sat motionless, staring at the bailiff who guarded the double doors at the entrance to the courtroom.
Ward and his minions made another plea for a meeting in chambers. Judge Owen turned his microphone back on and asked for the jury’s patience while he and counsel stepped away for a few moments. The representatives for Sterling and for Owen and Bart as well as the court reporter disappeared into the room behind the bench. Shari continued to sit stone-faced. For the first time, she had the sinking feeling that something ominous was about to unfold.
Although the walls between the judge’s chambers and the courtroom were thick as a fortified castle, the entire jury and those in the gallery could hear shouting. Words could not be distinguished, but the murmur from the volatile conversation seeped into the outer room.
“I have really had enough of you guys and Hollywood,” Judge Carter roared at Ward and his cohorts. “And you, Mr. Fitterman, you’re no better, surprising opposing counsel with this damning evidence. You should have made this material available to them!”
“I’m sorry, Your Honor, I was just provided with these documents this afternoon.” Fitterman lied. “The defendant’s counsel has the right to a postponement to review this material and to offer a defense,” Judge Carter said.
“I still move for a dismissal,” Ward stated.
“I’m considering your request,” Carter said.
Richard Ward looked at his colleagues, who shrugged their shoulders as if to say, “Let’s give up.”
“Does counsel for the plaintiff really wish to settle?” the judge queried.
“On the conditions previously set forth?” Fitterman said adamantly.
“Gentlemen?”
“No, Your Honor,” said Ward. “Not under those conditions. We may as well see this through.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“All rise,” the bailiff demanded as Judge Carter, Sterling’s attorneys, Fitterman, and the court reporter returned to the courtroom.
After a moment of settling down, Judge Carter spoke wearily. “Continue, Mr. Fitterman,” he said with a sigh.
Shari shot a long look of loathing at Ward, as if to say, “Why didn’t you settle? For Christ sake, I told you to settle this mess!”
Gus Fitterman went to his table and picked up several documents. Then he walked slowly over to Shari, who was beginning to look like Allison Janney’s character in American Beauty—cast down in a gloom of perpetual dejection.
“Ms. Draper,” he said. “Would you please look at this document and state for the record what it reveals?”
This time there was no objection from Sterling’s attorneys. Neither of them bellowed that the witness had already testified, under oath, that she was Shari Draper of 275 Thorn Hill Drive, Beverly Hills, California.
Shari took a long moment. Bart watched her and for a moment experienced pity for the woman—a pity reserved for one whose world is instantly and without warning wiped away as if it never existed in the first place.
“For the record. Your legal name, please,” Fitterman prompted.
Looking up as defiantly as ever and in a voice that filled the room as if to proclaim a victory, Shari said at last, “Shari Draper. My name is Shari Anne Draper!”
“Perhaps I phrased my question incorrectly and you didn’t quite understand,” Fitterman patronized. “I’d like you to tell the court the name you were born with.”
“You heard me the first time.” Shari was fast losing her confidence and arrogance.
Fitterman continued. “Well, let’s take a different approach. Do you know Jim Fallon? The television star?”
At the reference to his stardom, Jim beamed.
“Yes. I know many stars,” Shari said.
“Isn’t it true that you knew Mr. Fallon from a time when the two of you were incarcerated in an Alaskan jail?”
There was a loud murmur in the gallery.
Judge Carter brought his gavel down on a wooden block, calling for order. He had to demand silence several times before the crowd settled down.
Shari was flustered and looked with contempt at her team of attorneys. “Certainly not.”
“Okay. Did you know a man named Don Simpson? A film producer?”
“Oh, poor Don. What a terrible loss. I was completely floored by his death,” Shari pretended to weep.
“How well did you know Mr. Simpson? How far back did you go?”
Shari, working on overdrive to present the image of an ingenue, proceeded cautiously. “Oh, when I was first working in Hollywood as an assistant. I knew Mr. Simpson, and he was so incredibly kind and encouraging and helpful to me—and to all his assistants.” With this Shari feigned an emotional breakdown.
“Back to Mr. Jim Fallon for a moment,” Fitterman continued. “Where again did you say you met him?”
“I didn’t say.”
“Do you remember?”
“No.” Shari’s façade was practically diaphanous.
“Mr. Fallon has written a fascinating book, the manuscript of which is on my table. Did you know you are heavily featured in his story?”
Suddenly, knowing full well where Fitterman was going with his cross-examination, Shari stood up and faced Richard Ward. “Settle, you S.O.B.!” she shouted. “Settle! Settle! You motherfucking bottom-feeder!”
Judge Carter brought down his gavel with a thunderous echo. “The trial will continue,” he demanded.
Before the room could settle down completely and before the judge had an oppo
rtunity to render any sanctions, Fitterman plowed ahead. Holding a document out close to Shari’s face, Fitterman said, “Once again, for the record, your legal name, please.”
Finally, with no one to back her up, not even her overpaid lawyers, Shari stood up in the witness box. With an imperious tone, she proclaimed, “Larry Burton! Mr. Larry Charles Burton!”
There was a simultaneous explosive gasp from the jurors and those in the gallery. Fitterman completed his assault by stating, “We also have documentation from the Anchorage County Jail that Larry Charles Burton escaped from jail in 1976, along with the late Don Simpson.” He said to Shari/Larry in a compassionate tone, “You are said convict, number 2928272, are you not?”
“So I am,” Shari spat, making no apologies. “I suppose this is the point where I’m to get up and start singing a Jerry Herman song. ‘I Am What I Am,’ or something. Well, that ain’t gonna happen, you asswipes!”
In the midst of the turmoil in the courtroom, Judge Carter brought his gavel down one more time and declared the trial over. “I have no alternative but to find in favor of the defendant. Ms. Draper, er Burton, will be held until it’s determined if extradition to Alaska is required.”
He thanked the jury and apologized to them for not having the opportunity to deliberate the case. Then he looked out at Owen, and while looking into his eyes, he spoke collectively to the attorneys and to Owen. “I want you all back in this courtroom next Thursday at nine A.M. At that time I will determine the monetary damages to be accorded to Mr. Lucas and Mr. Cain.” Carter’s eyes stayed on Owen a beat longer before he rose from the bench and disappeared into his chambers.
Owen came over and hugged Bart, who by this time was surrounded by Rusty, Rod, Mitch, and Jim. They all thanked Fitterman, who was putting papers into his briefcase.
Sheriffs had surrounded Shari/Larry and placed her in handcuffs. “How could you do this to me, you fucking faggot,” she screamed at Bart. With new bravado and knowing that Shari was shackled, Bart left his clique and walked up to his old boss. “I learned a lot from you, Shari. I learned that nothing is ever good enough for you. I learned how not to treat other people. I especially learned what Norman Shearer learned in The Women. Does ‘Jungle Red’ mean anything to you?” Bart held up his hands and bent his fingers as if demonstrating that he’d finally grown claws—like everybody else in Hollywood. “They’re the same color as your toenails!”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Come back to the house and we’ll have Wolfgang deliver something to celebrate,” Jim said in a moment of unusual graciousness.
Reaching the parking lot, the men split up to find their respective cars. Bart and Rusty walked to Rusty’s Jag. Mitch got into his Honda. Owen pushed a button on his key and from ten paces away deactivated the alarm system in his BMW. Rod drove away in his Dodge Dart. Jim made a great show of wiping a spot from the hood of his Rolls-Royce. And Gus Fitterman just barely squeezed into his Volvo. They left Burbank and headed over Barham toward the Cahuenga Pass and up into the hills to Jim’s estate.
Knowing all the shortcuts, Jim reached Woodrow Wilson before the others. He parked his car in the circular drive and closed the gate behind him. He raced into the house, where he poured a double gin martini before the first arrival. Soon thereafter, Rod buzzed from the intercom at the gate. Jim pushed the button to activate the system that opened the enormous front gates, and Rod drove up the hill.
When he got inside the house, he immediately inhaled the smell of booze and realized that Jim had already downed a drink. “Ya know, this is the first time I’ve been back here since the day I found out that you and Michael had screwed me out of my script,” Rod said.
“Oh, let’s not go into that tonight, shall we?” Jim pleaded. “We have to celebrate Owen’s and Bart’s victory. Do open a bottle of bubbly. You still know where everything is. Nothing’s changed. They’ll be here any sec. And would you get Wolfgang on the phone for me?”
“I’m not your fucking houseboy anymore, Jim. You could ask me politely. Anyway, do it yourself.”
“Ever the contrary one, aren’t you!”
Just then the intercom buzzed. It was Bart and Rusty. “We’re here,” Rusty announced. “And Gus is a moment behind us, so please keep the gate open.”
When the men had all assembled in the library and Rusty had time to recover from the shock of seeing the city view for the first time, Rod decided to play host, after all, and poured them all flutes of champagne. “You’re a doll,” Jim said to him in appreciation.
Jim had even deigned to call Wolfgang to order pizzas. By the time the food arrived, the men were famished. They had been consuming nothing but champagne and melted Brie for an hour and were starting to reminisce about things that should have been kept locked up in the vaults of their respective memories.
“Oh, Rod,” Jim lamented. “I was an awful shit to you. I’m truly sorry. You’re too handsome to be angry at any longer. I’m even more sorry that they didn’t submit my book as evidence. That would have ensured it becoming a best-seller.”
“Your manuscript may still be incredibly valuable,” Fitterman interjected. “You’ve documented Shari’s attempt at castrating her lover to her being a failed transsexual to skateboarding microskirt-wearing mail-delivery girl at Millennium to queen of marketing at Sterling. With all your footnotes and the stuff about that director she had ruined because she realized they’d been in the slammer together and he knew her big secret, there’s no way she’ll succeed in harming Bart.”
“It’ll make a damn good movie,” Jim mused aloud. “Yes, and I could play myself.”
“When I began, all I wanted was to get my screenplay produced,” Rod said defensively to Jim. “None of this would have happened if it weren’t for you and that prick Michael! By the way, whatever happened to him?”
“I’m shocked at you,” Jim said. “You always used to devour the trades!”
“I haven’t been able to afford a shot of tequila, let alone buy Daily Variety. What’s happened to him?”
“Nothing, dear boy, except he’s persona non grata in the town he was determined to conquer. He’s on an unpaid leave of absence from Actors and Others. It’s been a scan-dal—with a capital D-I-S-H.”
“What happened?” asked Rusty.
“Seems his assistant, Troy, followed him to the Trap one night. Picture this: Michael sauntering into that scumhole of a dive, laying five hundred bucks on the counter, and the bartender grabbing him by his necktie and dragging him over the top of the bar. With videotape recorder in hand, Troy photographed Michael—in Armani, no less—forced down to his knees, where he became, shall we say, a human urinal not only for the bartender but for half the guys in the place. It was like a gang rape.” Jim made the pronouncement as if Michael must have been in heaven.
Jim paused. “Michael’s been in the hospital with hepatitis and God only knows what else. He should have stuck with spankings.”
Rod wanted to say it served Michael right for all the evil he’d wrought. Instead, self-absorbed to the core, he merely said, “So much for my script.”
“As a matter of fact,” Rusty said, interrupting, “Troy, his assistant, is one of my clients. Beautiful little shih tzu.”
“He’s got a cute dog, too,” Jim said, smiling at his old joke.
Mitch was just about to throw in another zinger, but Bart gave him a look that immediately stopped him.
“He was always hot for your script, Rod,” continued Rusty. “The original script, not the fiftieth draft you subsequently wrote based on Michael’s lame suggestions. He told me in the strictest confidence—and I wouldn’t ordinarily break a confidence, but since I’ve had too much to drink and you deserve as much positive news today as Owen and Bart—he’s made it his priority to package it for a new discovery he’s made. Some Gwyneth Paltrow/Cate Blanchette/Piper Perabo combo. He just negotiated a three-picture deal for her—at of all places, Sterling. He says she’s going to be a mega star, and he’s callin
g the shots for her career. So keep your fingers crossed about Blind as a Bat. You, too, Jim, because he said the one thing Michael did right was to sign you to the agency and he agrees that the gay building super would be the ideal role for your comeback.”
“I never left!” Jim said indignantly before checking his temper and realizing that Rusty was not being insulting.
Owen, meanwhile, quietly sipped champagne and watched the sun go down and the city lights appear below through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Bart and Rusty both noticed how withdrawn Owen seemed. They decided to wander over for a chat. Bart said to him, “A buck fifty for your thoughts?”
“Inflation, eh? I’ll never be able to repay you for putting your career on the line for me the way you did,” Owen said. “You and Rusty are an amazing couple. I’ve never been so grateful.”
“What’ll you do now that the nightmare is over?” Bart asked.
“You don’t have to worry about me.”
Rusty looked at Owen in a manner that suggested You want to tell him, or shall I?
Owen’s nonverbal response indicated that he trusted Rusty to do whatever he felt was best.
“Owen’s the heir to the Lucas department store chain. He’s got more money than God.”
“Jeez,” Bart said. “Why would you want to work at a hellhole like Sterling if you didn’t have to?”
“I love marketing. It’s what I got my degree in. Plus it was a big challenge. Also, when you don’t have to work, you don’t take all the day-today politics and bullshit seriously. You tell yourself, So what if they fire me. It’ll be their loss. What am I gonna do, starve? Money is merely freedom.
“But it’s you I’m now worried about,” Owen said, addressing Bart. “Even if Judge Carter makes Sterling reinstate you in your old job, you won’t go. What will you do?”
Bart smiled. “What transpired in court today gave me the ending to the novel I’ve been writing…”
Rusty turned to Bart. “I didn’t know you were writing a book! That’s really great.”