by Lisa Seidman
“Look,” he said, “I’m not at my desk. Let me take this in my office.” But again he was cut off. As he stood there and listened, a burst of laughter rocketed out of Rebecca’s office. Something about it struck me as odd until I realized Rebecca had been unusually quiet all morning. Charles looked up sharply. “She said what?” He glared at the wall of Rebecca’s office. Did he feel her laughter was an inappropriate interruption?
“Gail,” Charles said, and I thought, Uh-oh, trouble on the set. “Gail, look, why don’t I come to location and straighten it out with you there?” He looked at his watch. “Ten minutes, okay? Good, I’ll see you then.”
He hung up the phone, his face pale with anger, and turned to me. “Does Rebecca have someone with her?”
“She doesn’t have a meeting scheduled,” I said. “But I can hear someone in the office with her.”
Charles nodded, jaw set. “Tell her …” He changed his mind. “I’m going to location to talk with Ms. Neely. I’ll go home from there.”
He didn’t wait for my nod of acknowledgment. He threw one last angry look at Rebecca’s office before striding down the hall to his own.
Jennifer tore into the bullpen about five minutes later, Sandy right behind her. “It’s bullshit,” Jennifer said. “Pure bullshit.”
“Jennifer, promise me you won’t—” Sandy stopped when she realized I was sitting at my desk, typing Zack’s first draft of his own script assignment into the computer.
Ignoring me, Jennifer dropped into her chair, angrily blowing her bangs out of her eyes. “You can’t let her get away with this.”
“Not now,” Sandy hissed, looking at me.
“Do you want me to leave?” I asked. Sandy heard the hurt in my voice. Her face softened. “Oh, luv, it’s not about you.”
Her face crumpled, and she fished out a tissue from the pocket of her dress and dabbed at her eyes.
With phone to ear Jennifer asked me, “Know any hitmen?”
“Jennifer!” Sandy frantically pointed at Rebecca’s closed door. We heard the murmur of voices inside.
“I was kidding.” Jennifer turned back to me, stabbing at the intercom button. “Where’s Charles?”
“He went to location. There’s trouble with Gail.”
Jennifer put the phone down. “Good. I can go home early.” She looked at Sandy. “Unless you want me to stay?”
Sandy shook her head. “No, I’ll be all right. I have a dentist appointment anyway.” I nodded at Rebecca’s office behind me. “What’d she do?” Sandy and Jennifer exchanged a look. In a low voice Jennifer said, “Rebecca’s trying to get Sandy fired.”
I looked at Sandy. “Why?”
Sandy shrugged, still dabbing at her eyes.
“Rebecca claims she’s received a ton of complaints about Sandy,” said Jennifer. “About her phone behavior, relaying messages incorrectly, not getting work done on time.”
“She couldn’t get me fired so now she’s going after you?”
Sandy looked away, still struggling for control. I had a sudden, horrible thought. “Did Rebecca go to Ray about this?”
“Of course,” Jennifer said. “Why do you think we’re so upset?”
“But Ray has to know it’s not true.”
Sandy spoke up. “He put me on warning.” She sounded bitter. “Ray believes whatever Rebecca tells him.”
“Why does she hate us so much? Is she really that insecure?” But before either Sandy or Jennifer could answer Peggy popped her head out from behind her office door.
“Susan,” she began. But I never did find out what Peggy wanted. Just then Rebecca’s door opened and out strolled Vampire Woman with Zack, both laughing, Zack’s arm around her waist. She seemed to have fully recovered from not getting promoted. Maybe trying to get Sandy fired was an acceptable substitute.
Zack, however, took one look at Peggy and dropped his arm.
“Peggy,” said Rebecca, seemingly unfazed, “you’ve got to hear this joke Zack just told me.”
“Maybe later,” said Peggy. “I-I have an appointment. I have to leave now.”
Rebecca put on a concerned look. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine,” said Peggy. Her voice cracked. She withdrew into her office and shut the door behind her. Zack and Rebecca still stood next to one another, but the easy camaraderie was gone.
“How’s Act Two coming along?” Zack asked me, as if to alleviate the awkwardness.
“Fine,” I said, unable to look at him. “I’ll be done in a couple of hours.”
I couldn’t believe my voice sounded normal. Inside, I was seething. Zack’s face morphed into ex-boyfriend Peter’s face, morphed back to Zack’s face. I was getting vertigo.
“Great. Thanks.” He grinned shakily at Rebecca before heading back into his own office next to Peggy’s.
Sandy and Jennifer stood transfixed, their own problems forgotten. I could tell what Jennifer was thinking. Turn the cameras around! The action’s much more exciting behind the scenes! But all she said instead was, “I’m outta here.” She tucked her purse under her arm and headed for the exit.
Rebecca grabbed her. “What do you mean? It’s not six-thirty yet.”
Jennifer looked pointedly at Rebecca’s hand until Rebecca dropped it from her arm. Then she said, looking Vampire Woman straight in the eye, “If you ever touch me again, I will sue you.” To Sandy and me, cheerfully: “Hasta la vista, babies.” She swung down the hall and out of our sight.
Way to go, Jennifer! I wanted to shout. But instead I quickly turned back to the computer screen as Rebecca’s speculative gaze fell on me. For a minute I thought she was going to blame me for Jennifer’s act of defiance. But instead she said, “I’m meeting with Patrick Hager tomorrow at ten.” Pointedly she added, “He called while you were away from your desk.” Geez, a girl’s gotta pee every once in a while, I wanted to say, but instead I penned in Patrick’s name in the ten o’clock time slot on my desk calendar.
Sandy left shortly after Jennifer, Peggy following on Sandy’s heels. Neither woman looked well and both left without their usual goodnights.
I continued to plug Zack’s script into the computer as Zack packed his briefcase and prepared to leave. But first he stopped off at Rebecca’s office and asked if she was leaving any time soon.
“I’ve got some things to do for Ray,” I heard her say.
Zack nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.” He looked like he wanted to say something else, but changed his mind. He gave her a brief nod instead and exited the building.
As soon as Zack left, Rebecca headed for Ray’s office across the passage. She carried several scripts as well as a DVD. Patrick Hager’s director’s reel?
The writing staff, although paid a hefty weekly salary, was also paid the standard Writers Guild fee of approximately thirty-five thousand dollars for every script they wrote. To prevent the staff from hogging all the scripts, the Guild required that a certain number of freelance writers be brought in to write scripts, and Ray (although he was not a writer), Charles, Zack, and Peggy dutifully held meetings for mostly hopeful, all very nervous writers who came in and pitched story ideas for the show. These writers were found through the scripts their agents submitted, either spec scripts like mine or paid writing assignments from other shows. Judging from the stack of scripts under Rebecca’s arm, I gathered she had read them all and was now reporting back to Ray. I wondered who else’s career she was in the process of destroying and decided to come in early the next morning and read the scripts myself. I wanted to see if she was being fair or if her judgment was biased.
I finished Zack’s second act, printed it out and proofed it before emailing it to him. Now all I had to do was wait until Ray and Rebecca left before I could go home.
A woman appeared at the entrance to the bullpen. In her forties, she was dressed in a business suit, rare for our production office, and carried herself regally, almost arrogantly. She was tall, with straight, blunt-cut brown ha
ir, a thin-lipped mouth and only a hint of makeup around the eyes.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“I’ve come to pick up Ray.”
Pick up Ray? She sure didn’t look like one of the Teamsters who occasionally gave Ray a lift home when his Mercedes was in the shop.
I reached for the phone. “Shall I tell him who’s here?”
For all I knew she could be a crazed fan with a gun. It wouldn’t be the first time someone burst onto a studio lot, looking to blow away his or her favorite movie star. But this woman merely smiled at me, full of confidence, as she walked past my desk.
“Don’t bother. I’m his wife.”
Oh, I thought. Winifred McCauley. Winifred was one of Romulus Television’s lawyers, and she had helped put together the deal for Babbitt & Brooks. She and Ray had met over bagels and danishes in the company’s conference room, and the rest, as they say, was history. Of course, they had to divorce their respective spouses first to make that history. But who cared? Things like that were supposed to happen in Hollywood.
Just as Winifred reached the door to Ray’s office, Rebecca stepped out. The two women almost bumped into one another, and Winifred took an immediate step backward. She looked like she had just come face to face with a boa constrictor. Rebecca didn’t look all that thrilled herself.
“Hello, Winifred,” she said.
Winifred nodded icily. “Rebecca. How are you?”
There was less frost on the trees in Montana in February.
“I’m fine. Thank you. And you?” Rebecca’s smile looked like it had been pasted on crookedly by a demented artist.
“Good. Good.” The two women stood there, dislike a palpable tension between them. Was it my imagination or did Rebecca look longingly past Winifred’s shoulder, into her own office, at the closed door of her vodka-laden credenza?
Ray’s voice boomed out. “Winnie, is that you? Have you come to take me away from all this?”
Winifred’s voice became lighter, younger. “As always, my love.” Without giving Rebecca another glance she brushed past her and headed into Ray’s office, closing the door in Rebecca’s face. I decided I liked Winifred McCauley Goldfarb.
Rebecca stood there, the snub taking about three seconds to catch up to her. When it did, her smile faded, and for just a moment she looked like a four-year-old girl who had lost her favorite teddy bear. Then she turned and caught me watching her.
“Why don’t you go home?” she said quietly.
And so I did.
6.
When my alarm went off at six the next morning, I nearly hit the snooze button to go back to sleep. But I knew I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t get to the warehouse early to see if Rebecca had read and torpedoed the other writers’ scripts. I had to know if she was gunning for me (and Sandy) only, or if she was an equal-opportunity career crusher. Because if this was personal, then I had to find out why. No way was I going to let that woman sabotage me and my determination to become a TV writer.
I lived in West Lost Angeles, a pleasant community of small stucco homes and apartments, located west of UCLA and the more upscale community of Westwood. My apartment was part of a small, two-story, twelve-unit complex, lined with ancient, shedding palm trees that blocked the sunlight, and fronted by cracked cement parking spaces for which the landlord charged extra. The building was across the street from the V.A. hospital on Wilshire Boulevard, and every once in a while a confused and ailing vet would knock on the door, asking for money. Not the safest location for a single woman, perhaps, which was probably why the rents were slightly less than normal and made the place affordable for me.
The overhead light illuminated a two-room apartment as depressing as a prison cell. Everything about it was beige. The cinderblock walls. The worn and stained carpeting. Even the two built-in studio beds and sagging armchair covered in a matching beige-flowered fabric. I had pinned brightly colored 1930s-style Harper’s Bazaar and Vogue posters to the walls for contrast. But, instead of making the place cheery, the posters, filled with the holes of previous thumbtacks and dog-eared at the corners, only added to the loneliness of the room’s decor.
The low-flush shower regulator the landlord installed to save money barely woke me up. But after a brisk toweling and a bolted-down breakfast of Cheerios and banana, I was on the road in an hour.
Traffic on the 10 Freeway was just starting to slow down, and I stopped and started my way east then north on the 110/Harbor Freeway. Circumventing the skyscrapers of downtown, I made it to work in forty-five minutes, shaving fifteen minutes off my usual commute and arriving earlier than the rest of my colleagues. The cast and crew were on location that day, and the parking lot was empty of the usual trucks, trailers, cables, and other paraphernalia that clutter up a TV series in production.
Sherman had already unlocked the front door, although the writing staff all had keys of their own, and I headed down the corridor toward the bullpen. I stowed my shoulder bag in my desk, grabbed the coffee pot, rinsed it out in the bathroom sink and made fresh coffee. Jennifer had shown me where the coffee and filters were—relieved, I think, to be done with the chore herself.
Then, with the coffee brewing, I took my keys and headed for Rebecca’s office. The agent-submitted scripts, I knew, would be sitting in an untidy pile on her couch.
I stuck the key in the lock and turned the knob, but the door pushed open of its own accord. Funny. Maybe Rebecca forgot to lock up when she left last night.
But the door wasn’t locked because Rebecca had never left. I swung the door open and took two steps inside. Rebecca was slumped over her desk, her head almost unrecognizable because of all the blood. I also couldn’t help noticing the blood-spattered walls before backpedalling out of the office and shutting the door behind me. I was shaking and my palms were sweaty. I wiped them down my pants, took a deep breath then raced off in search of Sherman.
His tiny office was in a corner next to the bathrooms, down the hall from the writers’ corridor and around the corner from a basketball court–sized area used to hold production meetings. A portable TV droned softly on Sherman’s battered metal desk. The Today Show. Willard Scott was announcing the birthdays of fragile-looking, smiling centenarians. Sherman wasn’t in the office. I turned around, and the warehouse spun with me. I will not throw up, I vowed. I will not throw up.
“You’re here early again,” Sherman said, exiting the men’s room, holding a bucket and mop in each hand. “Don’t make it a habit.” He smiled at me, his keys clanking at his side.
I swallowed. “Sherman, will you come with me to Rebecca’s office?”
My voice was tight and small. Sherman looked at me more closely and his face filled with concern. He set the bucket and mop down on the cement floor.
“What’s the matter?”
“Rebecca …” I trailed off, too traumatized to finish.
“What about her?”
“Can you just …? Her office … Oh God …”
I started to shake and without another word, Sherman headed through the bullpen. I followed him, we stopped in front of Rebecca’s office. I nodded at the closed door.
“In there,” I said.
Sherman started to get the picture, but he didn’t hesitate. He twisted the knob and stepped inside. I turned away and stared at the closed door to Ray’s office. Sherman can make fun of me later, I thought. But I wasn’t going back in there for all the script assignments in Hollywood.
Sherman came back outside. His expression was unreadable.
“So?” I asked.
“She’s dead,” he said. “It looks like someone bashed her head in with a baseball bat.” He picked up the phone on my desk and dialed 911.
END OF ACT ONE
ACT TWO
1.
It was not a baseball bat, in point of fact, but Rebecca’s Women in Television Award. A triangular-shaped object made of crystal, the award sat on a heavy wooden base, inscribed to “Rebecca Saunders, associate producer
, Babbitt & Brooks, for her contribution to the image of women in television.” Rebecca prominently displayed it on her shelf above the couch, and every time I entered her office, I had a strong desire to turn the award around so that it faced the wall. The associate producer’s job was to handle post-production: deal with the film editors, the background musicians, set up dubbing and looping sessions. It was the least creative and most nuts and bolts job on the producer pecking order. Not that associate producing wasn’t important, but compared to the other producers and writers, Rebecca should’ve been low person on the totem pole. Charles, Ray, Peggy, and Zack had also received Women in Television Awards, the only difference being their awards were deserved.
“Susan Kaplan?”
I looked up. Two detectives stood by my desk. One was Asian, dressed in a suit and tie, the other was black, and wore a black T-shirt and windbreaker. I nodded up at them, having been peripherally aware of activity taking place in the warehouse after the arrival of several black-and-white police cars. Serious-looking men and women went in and out of Rebecca’s office. I could hear a camera click, voices murmuring to one another. The detective in the suit and tie continued.
“I’m Detective Albert Lu. This is Detective Mike Wagner. Officer D’Amato tells me you found the body.”
Again, all I could do was nod. Believe it or not, I used to fantasize about what it would be like to be involved in a murder investigation. As the prosecution’s expert witness I would be articulate, intelligent, and observant. The sexy detective involved in the case would be impressed and fall in love with me. The reality was, not only was there not the least bit of chemistry between Detective Lu (mid-forties, leathery skin, black hair the consistency of shoe polish) and myself, but I also didn’t feel particularly observant or intelligent. In fact, the experience reminded me of when I was ten years old and wishing I were sick so that I could stay home from school and watch cartoons and reruns of The Brady Bunch on TV Land. Then I came down with the flu, threw up for three days straight, and wondered endlessly what my classmates were doing and whether my best friends were making new friends without me. Like my ten-year-old self, now that I got a dose of my fantasy, I no longer wanted it.