“My plan?” Troy says, lowering the smoked-glass window of his SUV and reaching down to take the ticket from the bored-looking attendant.
“Yeah, I mean are you prepared to go to trial with this guy? If it comes to that? I would ask if your lawyer’s prepared to go to trial, but I take it as a given that lawyers are always prepared to go to trial.”
Troy shoots me a lazy, teasing smile, barely avoiding colliding with a black Mercedes rocketing out of the garage. “You know I’m not supposed to discuss my case.”
I know I should find this amusing. But after all he’s put me through in what, less than a month, the amusement factor of Troy’s good-ole-boy antics has dwindled to a dangerously low level. Dangerous for a publicist who is paid to tolerate those antics.
“Troy, I’m your publicist,” I say, trying to keep my voice ironic and failing miserably. “You’re supposed to discuss things with me, then I make sure no one else discusses them. That’s how it works.”
“Hey, easy. I was just kidding,” he says, raising his hands. “Look, you were there. You know I didn’t hit the guy on purpose, that I was going for the camera. How do you think I should plead?”
He’s right on that account. Even high, Troy had the sense to lunge for the camera, not the photographer who apparently hadn’t the sense to get out of the way of a 210-pound former college baseball star who was stoned and very, very pissed off. Still, in my book, no good ever comes from logging time in a courtroom. Not as a defendant. Not as a plaintiff.
“Look, I know you’re not guilty, but I vote for doing whatever it takes to make this go away. Make him go away. Pay him, bribe him, have him killed. Just get rid of him. Let’s get back to promoting your career, not your innocence.”
Troy eases into a space, turns off the engine, and turns toward me. “Look, I know you think I’m an asshole—”
Whoa. It’s okay to think your clients are assholes, but it is not okay to have them think that you think that. “Hey, I don’t, and I don’t think I’ve ever said anything to give you that impression,” I say, cutting him off.
Troy shoots me a cut-the-crap look. “My point is, whatever you think of me, I am not a bad guy. Not really.”
He sighs and turns and looks out his window. “I mean, you try being me for a week. Last time I checked I was trying for division play-offs, hoping for a shot with the minors. Next thing I know, I’m on the cover of magazines. Now look where I am,” he says, turning back toward me. “In the bottom of the Beverly Hills courthouse.”
It’s touching and largely true, but I’m not buying this sob story from Troy. Stardom is never that simple. If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that most stars think things just happen to them—because they are talented or beautiful or just special. It’s a childlike—and childish—view of the world and it keeps them from developing any sense of responsibility about their own lives. It’s why publicists were invented. And why I’m sitting here riding shotgun with a guy who actually feels sorry for himself.
“Well,” I say, gazing out my own window. “Then we better go in and set the record straight.”
It’s worse than the red carpet inside. Mostly because there is no carpet, no rope line. Just a sea of photographers, cameramen, and reporters, who quickly surround us.
“Troy!”
“Troy, over here!”
“Troy, how are you going to plead?”
“Troy, is this just a nonsense suit?”
I can only imagine what Winona went through here during her trial. I take a deep breath, throw a bunch of “no comment”s in the air, loop my arm through Troy’s—the effect is about as intimidating as a kid sister running to keep up with her older brother—and hurry past the guards toward the elevators.
“Troy!”
Tom, Troy’s lawyer, and a second guy in an expensive suit and haircut who I assume is the trial lawyer, are holding an elevator. We dive in, the door slides shut. Safe at first.
The courtroom is less of a zoo; packed, but at least a modicum of decorum exists in here with all the guys with guns standing around. The press pretty much fills the gallery, talking among themselves and craning to get a better look at Troy. At least they can’t shout questions in here. Or, more important, take pictures.
We slide into the defendant’s table according to pay scale: the trial lawyer, Troy, Tom, and then me. While the three of them huddle, I look across the aisle at the opposing team. There’s just two of them: the photographer and his lawyer. Judging by the cut of their suits, I’m guessing the photographer folds sooner rather than later.
I glance back at the gallery and recognize a few faces. L.A. Times. US. AP. Ah, the Star. Access Hollywood. The usual opinion makers. I turn back. Our team is still huddling, but I already know how this will go. The photographer’s lawyer will stand and speak. Then Tom and Troy will stand and Troy will plead. There’ll be some Q-and-A with the lawyers, the judge will toss out a court date, and we’ll head for the exits, where I’ll spring back into action. I’ve already decided, no matter what happens today, I’m not letting Troy make a statement. No fucking way. Not after all he’s pulled.
Tom breaks from the huddle, leans toward me, and starts writing in his notebook. On TV these conversations look so important, but over his arm, I can see he’s just doodling. “Alex, once we get started, the whole thing will only take about fifteen, twenty minutes tops,” he says, sotto voce. I’m about to ask him, sotto voce, exactly when it’s all going to start when there’s a commotion at the front of the room. The bailiff snaps to attention.
The judge enters. She actually looks pretty good in the robe.
“All rise.”
We rise. And then we sit. And we listen. First to the judge. Then to the photographer’s lawyer. And then to the judge. Then it’s our turn to speak. First the trial lawyer and then Troy, who stands and pleads not guilty.
The judge is leafing through her calendar looking for a trial date, when Troy interrupts her. “Your Honor, may I say something?” Oh God. This isn’t in the game plan. Or is it? I glance over at Tom. I have no idea what Troy’s about to say, and judging by the look on Tom’s face, neither does he. I look at the photographer’s table, where he and his lawyer are talking furiously. Normally, a defendant, even a famous one, doesn’t speak at a preliminary hearing. But the judge lowers her glasses, peers at Troy for a minute, and waves him on. “Proceed, Mr. Madden. But keep it short.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I mean, Your Honor,” Troy plunges in, in his best Midwest twang. “I just wanted to say that in my life, I mean as I have known it—lived it—that I consider myself a smiler.”
Oh God. I squeeze my eyes shut for second. Even when he’s not stoned, Troy can just sound so out there.
The judge continues to peer over her glasses at him. “Mr. Madden, I suggest you get to your point.”
“Yes, ma’am. I mean, Your Honor. Where I come from, we used to say people were either smilers or they weren’t. You know, did they have a good attitude about life and their fellow human beings? And in our family, we were known, famous, even, as smilers. You could ask anybody and they’d tell you Brad Madden and his kids were some of the best folks around.”
“Mr. Madden, that you were a model citizen back in Iowa is immaterial to this court. What’s at issue is your behavior of late.”
“Your Honor, I’m getting to that. But I just wanted to make clear to you, to all of you,” he says, turning to the photographer’s table, “that if there is any place that will wipe the smile off your face, it’s Hollywood. I know because it’s happened to me. And I’ve paid the price for not understanding that. I screwed up. I admit it.”
Troy pauses and sighs and looks down at the table.
“Are you finished, Mr. Madden?” the judge asks.
Troy shakes his head and then looks up. I see something glint on his cheek. I lean forward to get a better look. That son of a bitch. He actually got himself to cry.
“I just want to apologize to everyone here,
” Troy goes on, his voice husky now. “I’m sorry if I’ve hurt anyone. But all I’m saying is I’m still learning. Hell, I’m still technically in recovery, so I’m still making amends. But personal pride is all any of us have. In the end. That’s one thing my daddy taught me. So I would just like to say,” he says, turning again to the photographer, “that maybe the world would be a little better place if we all respected each other more. As people. As people who make mistakes. And who need time and space to undo those mistakes.”
Troy sits down and abruptly stands back up. “And thank you. Thank you, Your Honor, for letting me speak. To say my piece.”
Troy sits back down and stares into his lap. That speech is bullshit, but you have to give him credit. He might not be a great actor, but Troy is an actor. And he knows how to pull focus. I look back at the photographer. He’s glaring at Troy. He knows he doesn’t stand a chance. Not here. Not in front of an audience. Not in front of a jury. Not in the tabs. There’s another flurry of standing and speaking by the lawyers. Finally it ends. Our team breaks into smiles. In exchange for dropping the charges against him, Troy agrees to attend an anger-management course—shit, they hold them at his rehab center—and make a donation to the charity of the plaintiff’s choice. Safe at home. With barely a scratch.
We have about three minutes to make the elevators before they let the press go. The four of us stride down the hall. Like the credit sequence on Law & Order except I have to dogtrot to keep up. I sidle in next to Troy and remind him that he is not talking to the press. Even if he is the day’s winner. I tell him to head for his car, that I’ll catch a cab back to the office and issue the statement from there. That we’re gratified at the outcome, now putting it behind us, looking forward to getting back to work. The usual.
“You’re the best,” Troy says, loping on ahead, still flanked by his lawyers. Behind me I hear the clatter of footsteps and shouts. The hounds have been loosed.
“Go on,” I say, as Troy dives into the elevator. “I’ll deal with them.”
“By the way,” he says, turning back, holding the doors open. “It was never anything personal.”
“Right,” I say, nodding. “Go on now.”
“I just wanted to make sure you knew that.”
“Got it,” I say, giving him a wave. “Seriously. Go.”
Troy releases the doors, they glide shut, and I brace myself for the onslaught to come. Of course it’s not personal. It never is.
“So what do you think he meant by that? ‘It wasn’t personal’?” Steven leans in the doorway of my office, nursing a latte.
“I don’t know,” I say, staring distractedly at my computer screen. I’m back in the office trying to craft the release in time for the afternoon’s deadlines. “Maybe he was apologizing for being such a dick.”
“About what, exactly? Embarrassing you in public? Acting like it never happened? Or hitting you up for cash?”
“How about all of it?”
“Oh, you don’t believe that.”
“I don’t know,” I say, looking up irritably.
“Okay,” Steven says, raising his hands. “I was just trying to help. You’re usually the suspicious one.”
“Well, let’s give him the benefit of the doubt this time.”
“Okay,” Steven says again, turning to leave. “I’ll give you both the benefit of the doubt. Let me know when you’re ready to send that out and I’ll get the carrier pigeons saddled up.”
When Steven leaves, I lean back in my chair and reknot my hair with a pencil. He’s not wrong about my irritation levels. Ever since my conversation with G at the Viper Room, I’ve been avoiding Steven. Or avoiding talking to him. I called him on my cell when I was leaving the club that night but only got his machine. When he reached me the next afternoon, I had already decided to try and forget the whole thing. I told Steven I saw G. That he loved my gift—our gift—and that he’s no less creepy off-duty than he is at the office. But I didn’t mention his doomsday scenario for the agency and Suzanne leaving, nor his suggestions on how I could avoid the coming conflagration with special displays of loyalty.
Now, every time I see Steven I feel guilty. I’ve never not told him anything. Well, not anything to do with the agency. But denial can be a good thing. Preserves your energies. Keeps you from getting worked up about stuff that will probably never happen. Or at least happen later. But it tends to make you a little bitchy with certain people. People who can read you better than you can read yourself. People you respect. Luckily, other than Steven and Rachel, there aren’t too many of them around. Besides, I still think I could have misunderstood G. I mean, it was very dark and very loud and he was pretty drunk. I know there’s a recession, but it is technically possible that no one will get laid off, that Suzanne will stay on, and that I will never be called on to display any further proof of my loyalty than showing up here every day, which, depending on the day, can seem like punishment enough.
I re-anchor my ponytail and check the time. Less than a hour to get this out. I turn back to the computer and reread what I’ve written. Like I don’t have enough lies to tell as it is.
I spend the rest of the day getting out the release, answering e-mails and calls. Normally, Steven and I would head down to Tom Bergin’s and catch the returns over a beer. But Steven has a racquetball game—“It’s so retro it’s even hipper than bowling now,” he says—and although he offers to cancel, I beg off.
“You know, I’m wiped from the courtroom,” I say. “I’ll just catch the news here and then head home.”
“Well, if you want it, the Dewar’s is in my desk. Third drawer on the right.”
“First you’re channeling Ryan O’Neal in Love Story, and now you’re Hildy Johnson?”
“Oh, thank God,” Steven says, coming over and giving me a hug. “For a minute there, we thought the little girl was a goner.”
“Hey,” I say, giving him a halfhearted hug back. “You know how much I love it when you quote from The Wizard of Oz.”
When Steven leaves, I head down the hall to the kitchen and grab a fresh water out of the refrigerator. Frankly, scotch and water doesn’t sound all that bad. I root around and find some leftover cookies, sent from someone somewhere for something. Okay, drink and dinner. I’m just heading down the hall back to my office, to catch up on the trades until the nightly Hollywood shows come on at seven, when I hear a door open behind me.
“Alex, do you have a minute?”
Suzanne.
I turn around slowly. At least it’s not G.
“Of course,” I say. “I’m just waiting for the news. To see how Troy’s trial goes down.”
I’ve only been in Suzanne’s new office once and it’s even bigger than I remember. A spacious corner suite with a sofa and armchairs in plush sage green chenille, two windows, and a fabulous view up Wilshire. There’s one orchid on her desk and another on the coffee table. A girl could get used to this.
“You know, I still can’t get over how much nicer our offices are here,” I say, staring out the window to see how far east I can see. If I can actually see Barneys.
Suzanne looks startled. Or maybe she’s just distracted. “Oh yes,” she says, looking around like it’s the first time she’s seen her office. “It is much bigger here.”
She shuts the door and asks me to sit—God, a sofa in your office is so great—and then tells me that what she’s about to tell me is confidential. Just between us and can she count on that confidentiality? Oh God. First G and now her?
“Uhm, sure, but I can’t imagine what you have to tell me really requires confid—”
She cuts me off with a wave and plunges in.
So much for denial. It’s exactly like G’s speech, with a few more details. Times are tough. Recession in the industry. Foreign financing is drying up. Production deals are not being renewed. Clients have less work. Publicists have less work. “I’ve already spoken to Doug about this and he feels—we both feel—that the fairest thing will be to offer
small buyouts, compensatory packages, to those agents who choose to take them,” she says.
So it is true. There will be layoffs. I brace myself. “So you’re suggesting I resign? Take the buyout?”
Suzanne looks startled. “Oh, no, you’re misreading me.”
“Then what are you saying?”
She holds up a hand and continues. Once the buyouts are accepted, the remaining staff will be assessed. If there are still too many publicists to support the client base, then actual layoffs will begin.
“So you are telling me to take the buyout?”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m only telling you what will happen agency-wide. I am also telling you that I hope you do not take the buyout because you will probably not be one of the ones laid off. Not at your age and salary level.”
Okay, this is officially strange. First G tells me I will definitely be let go unless I demonstrate my loyalty. Now Suzanne is telling me exactly the opposite. Frankly, G’s scenario makes the most sense. I’m not one of his handpicked Biggies, I’m the most recent DWP hire, and I nearly landed on probation for mishandling Troy. There’s no way they would keep me on before the others. Something is definitely up. I need to tread carefully.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “That’s good to hear although I’m not sure I understand why.”
But Suzanne moves on. “Yes, but there’s a whole other part to this,” she says, dropping her voice. “And this is where I really need you to keep this to yourself.” She looks at me expectantly.
Cross my heart and hope to die.
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