by Robert Cort
A letter of resignation?
He removed a pack of Merits, lit one, and took a deep drag. “Whoever outlawed smoking doesn’t know the meaning of fartootst. I told him I was in the midst of a critical marketing campaign, and if Ricky ultimately bought the company, he would want Lincoln to be a hit. But Sparrow said, ‘Lincoln hasn’t got a chance in hell. It’s not worth your effort.’ That doesn’t make sense.”
It did to AJ. If the movie failed, Ricky would find it easier to convince Leo Dorman and Jack Lemmon that AJ’s management team wasn’t worth supporting. And because Andy was sharply at odds with Jessica, he was the most vulnerable mark in the company. “How did you leave it with him?”
“I promised to give him an answer in a few days.”
AJ couldn’t afford to lose his marketing guru, but he couldn’t grant the authority over Jess that Faddiman desired. So he stalled. “I appreciate you giving me a heads-up.”
“Before I tell him to wipe his tush with the offer, I want to make sure you don’t need me as a double agent . . .”
AJ’s sigh of relief revealed his doubts.
“Oh my God! You thought I was going to . . . ? Shame on you. I’ve known you for over twenty years.”
“I apologize, Andy. I don’t know what I was thinking. These days I trust no one. . . . I should have—”
Faddiman silenced him with a hug.
But as AJ headed back to his office, another doubt crossed his mind. He beelined to his Rolodex and flipped through until he located the name of Logan Clark, a private investigator whom J2 used regularly as a consultant on movies. “This time I need you for a real job.”
“I handle shit like this all the time,” Logan assured him after learning of the mission. “I’m assuming you’re just seeking confirmation, not elimination?”
“What? Are you—”
“Kidding, I’m kidding.”
With a guy who had served as much time in Special Forces as Clark, you could never take the chance.
CHAPTER 51
“Iacta alea est!” Caesar’s declaration as he crossed the Rubicon on his march toward Rome was etched in Richard’s memory. Twelve years ago he’d shouted the English version—“The die is cast!”—during an audition for an ABC miniseries. But not until he’d personally sealed the bid to take over J2 did he comprehend the thrill of charging into a coliseum from which there could be no retreat, no negotiations, no outcome other than victory or ignominy. Until then it had all been acting, a game, mental masturbation. Lying on his bed with the shutters drawn against the early-morning sunlight, Richard imagined again and again the impact of his terse takeover note: his father’s bravado, fury, and, inevitably, fear. Now he was an hour away from outflanking his foe, driving him from his corporate lair into the open, where he could be hunted and destroyed.
“Nina is wetting her bed again.”
He opened his eyes to the sight of his wife gripping damp sheets. Marriage on the rebound was a god-awful idea. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“She’s nine. We have to get her help.”
“That’s the worst thing we can do. It will make her feel like a freak.” He rose and headed to the bathroom to shave.
She followed him. “End of conversation?”
“I’m sorry if I can’t be more comforting, but I’m about to start a meeting that could determine the fate of my entire venture.”
She exited without another word. That was one of Amber’s problems—she composed speeches but rarely delivered them. He cared about her concerns and his daughter’s lapses, but there was a time and place to deal with both. The buzz of the security gate captured his attention. First, he had to seal a grand alliance.
Mike Ovitz’s power had peaked in the early 1990s, when CAA dominated the agency world and he spent his days brokering the sale of studios. But after the departure of his partners, Bill Haber and Ron Meyer, Ovitz had wearied of the ceaseless hand-holding of the talent. He’d accepted a post as Michael Eisner’s second in command at Disney, but Eisner had never given the relationship a chance, axing his “friend” after sixteen months. Richard, however, had seen an opportunity in his former agent’s setback. If he could persuade Ovitz to be president of J2, that announcement would win over the undecided voters on his father’s board of directors. Mike had ultimately declined his offer, claiming it was too soon for him to jump back into corporate life, but he’d immediately conceived an inspired alternative.
After Don’t Tread on Me, Russ Matovich had directed twenty movies whose cumulative box office exceeded four billion dollars. The secret of his success was recognizing that young audiences didn’t care about being moved or improved—they wanted action. So Matovich dealt them a visual rush with visceral state-of-the-art spectacles. Only Spielberg ranked higher in the Hollywood pantheon, a reality that drove Russ so mad with envy he hired a publicist whose job was to contact anyone doing a feature on Steven and sell him instead. But when Spielberg cofounded DreamWorks, Russ sulked. How could he compete with a man who owned a studio?
Mike proposed an elegant solution. If Matovich became president of J2, Russ would get his studio, Richard would sign up a pro, and Mike would siphon power from both. They had agreed to every major point in prior negotiating sessions, but when Richard proposed formalizing the deal, the mood shifted.
Matovich smiled. “I’ve thought about this a lot, Ricky—”
“Richard. I prefer it.”
“I remain intrigued, Richard. But I won’t be your deputy. Maybe it’s too many years calling the shots—I’ve got to be totally in charge.” He leaned across the coffee table. “That means the power to make every decision that affects what movies we make, how we market them, and how the theaters operate.”
This was massive betrayal. Forty-eight hours ago Matovich had signed off on a power-sharing arrangement in which Richard exercised fiduciary controls, as well as maintaining approval over key decisions. With Powerline spending a billion dollars to acquire J2—and billions more in the future—Richard damn well intended to keep himself intimately involved. Matovich’s demand was out of line, and in any event, Powerline’s board of directors would never abdicate autonomy. He glared at Ovitz, as if to say “Do something—and do it now.”
But when Mike began to stroke, he targeted Richard, not Matovich. “Although it may not seem so on the surface, what Russ is seeking is precisely what you want. Ceding him control will prove how much control you have, because really powerful men exercise their power by not using it. If people ask, you say that you want your studio run brilliantly, and the only way that can be accomplished is for a single guy to manage the show, like in the days of Zanuck and Warner. Point to Lew Wasserman as a role model.”
The former agent spoke with such utter conviction that it took Richard a moment to grasp that every word was a lie. He wanted to banish both men, but that would gain him nothing. He didn’t have an alternative to Russ in the wings, and without a splashy CEO, all Richard had was too much J2 stock and the scorn of his father. “Russ, I’ll guarantee ten million dollars more in your pay package if you’ll quit being a control freak. And I give you my solemn promise to stay out of your hair. I’ve got better things to do than run a studio.”
“You’re sure?”
“As God is my witness. And there’s no other way this can work.”
Matovich extended his hand. “Then we’ve got a deal.”
AJ credited Leo Dorman and Jack Lemmon for their guts. Rather than phone to say they’d switched their support to Powerline’s takeover, they came to his office to abandon him in person. His son’s recruitment of Matovich had convinced both that the prospective owner was committed to building a vibrant new J2. “They’re a mighty impressive team,” Lemmon piped up. “The kind of guys you’d like to have join your foursome.”
“If you like sandbaggers,” AJ replied.
“When we met with him yesterday your son described how Hollywood can program the Internet,” Dorman gushed. “It’s a potential
gold mine, and Russ said he’ll personally devise the content for a new entertainment site that will only be available through Powerline.com. We’re talking original movies with A-list directors and big names. Jack’s agreed to star in one.”
“Please!” AJ brushed aside the idea with a wave of his hand. “We’re years away from using the Net to distribute movies—or anything other than information.”
Lemmon smiled sadly. “We’re survivors, my friend, but we can’t allow ourselves to get stuck in the past.”
“I’m not stuck in it, but I am a student of it. My son’s off base. It took thirty years after the invention of television for people to figure out how to make it work commercially. Give me another two quarters to raise our stock price,” he pleaded. “The reason it’s fallen so far is because Terry Mangiarcina slaughtered us in the financial press, and she only did it so that her firm could cash a twenty-million-dollar investment-banking fee from Powerline. We ought to haul their asses up in front of the SEC.”
“That’s part of the game,” Dorman countered. “And as of tomorrow Powerline’s increasing its offer by four dollars a share.”
Flop sweat seeped from AJ’s brow. “That’s nineteen dollars over the market. I don’t believe it.”
“They’re making the announcement at their annual meeting. On behalf of our stockholders we have a duty to accept a fantastic deal.”
“This is my company, Leo! Mine!”
“I understand,” Dorman replied. “And I discussed that point with your son. I know there’s sour history, but he’s willing to forgive and forget. He promised me he was open to keeping Jess as a consultant, and if you wanted to remain on the board . . . well, you’d have to be willing to see things his way, but this could be a wonderful reunion.”
“That’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard a smart man say.”
Dorman’s eyes bugged. “In my entire career, Jastrow, no one’s ever spoken to me like that.”
“I don’t give a shit! The vote will be five to five, Leo. According to our bylaws, in case of a tie I make the final decision. So tell Ricky he can offer a hundred dollars a share—his offer will still meet the same fate.”
“You’re inviting lawsuits from stockholders.”
“Fuck them.”
Lemmon looked aghast. “It’s going to be a terrible mess.”
“That I didn’t cause.” AJ threw open the door to his office. “Get the hell out of here.”
Jessica had been among the last to arrive for Sean Devine’s memorial service. Two weeks ago a neighbor had found him—and his German shepherd—sprawled on the Spanish mosaic tile in the bathroom of his Beachwood Canyon home, both victims of heroin overdose. She’d rejected a request by his former CAA colleagues to eulogize their good times together and had debated the wisdom of even attending. Except for kidnapping his beloved dog into the next world with him, her ex-lover’s burnout was no more unusual in Hollywood than a mud slide after the winter rains.
“Mind some company?” she asked, settling on the sofa in her father’s office later that morning.
“Not if it’s yours.” He sat catty-corner, his feet propped on the coffee table. “I never liked Sean—not when you two were dating and especially when I learned about the job scam.”
Jess stared. “You knew?”
“I learned a year after the fact.”
“He was a charmer, that’s for sure,” she observed sadly.
“It doesn’t take an evil person to do despicable things.”
“Six months ago Sean said lying to me was the worst mistake he ever made. He begged me to forgive him. But I couldn’t.”
“And you shouldn’t have.”
She smiled thinly. “I thought forgiveness is a virtue.”
“An apology doesn’t erase a betrayal.”
“Dad, I’m lost.”
He selected an apple from the fruit bowl on the coffee table, casually tossed it in the air, then took a loud bite. “I don’t buy that. Maybe you haven’t found what makes you happy, but that doesn’t mean you’re lost.”
“You’re playing with words. I’m thirty-six and you’re my only confidant? That’s ‘lost.’ ”
“No, it’s lonely. Jessica, all men aren’t Sean. You have to be willing to take a chance.” He paused. “Why don’t you call Patrick?”
“It’s too late.”
“Think about Mom and me. It’s never too late.”
Jess returned to her office annoyed by her father’s simpleminded advice. But then she saw Holly Ballsky waiting patiently with her fourth pitch of the dog story. The writer looked so determined, Jess took heart. If she could track Patrick down, if he wasn’t clicking snapshots in the Andes or the Arctic . . . maybe it was worth the try.
“Please give a warm welcome to the heart and soul of our company, the indomitable Maggie Ginsberg.”
Her grandson’s introduction to stockholders attending Powerline’s annual meeting produced the kind of whooping, cheering, and foot stamping heard at a rock concert. Out of the corner of her eye Maggie saw CNN swivel their cameras to catch her. It took all her strength to switch on the microphone. That’s what death ate first, consuming her power in chunks while saving the skin and bones for dessert. Thank God for OxyContin. The potent pain pill kept her from being tethered to the hospital during these waning days. The second she began to speak, however, Miss Mayhem was back on the air. Her voice was vibrant and her eyes leveled every member of the audience.
“This meeting marks my tenth anniversary as chairwoman of the Powerline board. It has been a wonderful capper to my career. So it is with considerable regret I declare that it must also be my last.”
Groans attended her announcement.
“I feel totally confident that Richard Jastrow will continue to lead us forward. Our company is poised to become one of the most effective media giants in the world.” She turned and smiled at her grandson. “It better be, because I’m counting on our stock to help support me in my old age—when it arrives.”
Dozens of hands shot into the air. Richard pointed to a reporter from The Wall Street Journal.
“Madam Ambassador, does your departure at this juncture suggest that you disagree with the attempted takeover of J-Squared?”
“To the contrary. A few years ago members of the financial press castigated us for diversifying from our core cellular-phone business and building Powerline.com. But our Internet portal has doubled the company’s market value. It’s been our goal to acquire a producer of content, especially movies. Since we’re well down that path, now is an ideal time for me to leave.” Being an actress saved the day.
An elderly gentleman shouted, “Isn’t fifty dollars a share for J-Squared highway robbery?”
“For those of us who survived the Great Depression, sir, the price of milk is highway robbery and the cost of a Toyota is the Brinks job. I wish the acquisition could be done for less, but I’ve urged Richard to proceed.”
CNBC’s Ron Insana pressed forward. “We’ve heard rumors from various sources that AJ Jastrow used blackmail and extortion to build his company and that he’s ruthless and abusive to his filmmakers and employees. Do you think he’s fit to run a public company?”
Maggie caught Richard exchanging a glance with Roy Sparrow. They willed her to blast away. “My son is self-serving, self-absorbed, obstinate, and over the hill. I have no doubt he’s bullied and screamed at people. But if you’re asking if I think he’s a criminal . . . no, I do not.” Leaving no opportunity for further questions, Maggie rose from the table and walked from the room. Her exits had always been art.
CHAPTER 52
Steph rolled over in bed to find tangled covers, pounded pillows, and a sweaty void. For a beat she couldn’t distinguish if the footsteps on the stairs were headed up or down, but the bedroom door failed to open, a sure sign her husband’s vigil had just begun. It was three A.M., right on time.
AJ always read reviews. No matter how obscure the publication or distant the chann
el, he knew what critics thought of his movies. But in the current crisis his habit proved masochistic because every business publication vilified his behavior. Under the headline A THRILLER IN HOLLYWOOD: FAMILY FEUD FUELS REVOLT, The Wall Street Journal had anointed him the black hat for ignoring the interests of his stockholders. Forbes and Fortune had outsavaged each other to agree. Their thumbs-down had driven J2’s stock into the ground and incited a blizzard of lawsuits aimed at him and the board of directors.
Steph tracked him to the den, where he was rewinding a tape of Terry Mangiarcina’s interview on Moneyline. “She accused me of being the spoiled kid in the school yard who won’t let anyone else play with his ball.”
“Forget it—the woman’s a bitch. How did it go with G.E.?” At Borkin’s suggestion AJ had contacted Jack Welch in hopes that he might become a “white knight.” When AJ hadn’t returned from his meeting by eleven, Steph thought they might have struck a deal.
He pursed his lips. “Welch was interested, but won’t come close to matching Powerline’s bid—it’s ridiculously rich.”
“You still have the votes.”
“How about us going far away . . . maybe Tahiti? By the time we return this will have blown over.”
“It’s not your style.”
“You’re right, there’s no golf.”
“I meant running away.”
He waved brusquely. “You just can’t take time from your television career. You’re like my mother.”
“Bite your tongue.” Everyone was his enemy—or on their way. Over forty years she had steeled herself to provocation. “Are you worried about the lawsuits? Pete said we might be personally liable.”
AJ tossed her an envelope. “I’m not sure he’s the best judge.”
The cover letter was from that lunatic Logan Clark, who’d helped install the security system in the house. He’d insisted they buy geese because the birds were more reliable than dogs, lasers, or alarms, but had forgotten to mention that they would cover the front lawn in goose shit. AJ had slipped and fallen in it, which had made her laugh . . . but what she read in Clark’s summary wasn’t amusing. “This can’t be.”