by Robert Evans
In criminal cases, the prosecution’s first witness is known as the leadoff. It is usually the most compelling witness who would outline the most important elements of the case. I was the leadoff witness. Shapiro couldn’t believe the D.A. would call me. He felt this was being done to call attention to the case and make it more newsworthy, and he was absolutely right. When I appeared in court there was not an empty seat. All the vultures were there: the producers and would-be producers of miniseries and TV shows; the book writers looking for an angle; the newspaper reporters and magazine writers of the world press. People began to refer to it as “the Evans Case.”
Although I knew I would not be testifying to anything, my heart felt like it was coming out of my skin. I sat in what lawyers describe as the hardest chair in the world.
The prosecutor rose and approached the podium as the clerk stated, “State and spell your first and last name.”
“Robert Evans. R-o-b-e-r-t E-v-a-n-s.”
“What is your occupation?” Cohn, the prosecutor, queried.
Shapiro gave me the nod. “Based on the advice of counsel, I respectfully refuse to answer that question. I exercise my privilege under the Fifth Amendment of the United States Constitution.”
The prosecutor raised his voice in an angry tone and told the judge such questions did not call for any information which could possibly incriminate me, and that he vehemently objected and asked the court to order that I answer the question. The judge reserved the ruling and asked the prosecutor to continue.
“Did you know a man by the name of Roy Radin?”
I repeated the same answer.
“Do you know a woman by the name of Laynie Jacobs?”
Again the same response from me. The prosecutor continued with what seemed to be an endless line of questions to which I gave the same answer. Shapiro interrupted and said that this was unnecessary and unwarranted and that he would advise me—and I would follow his advice—to exercise my rights not to testify.
Judge Patti Jo McKay then made her decision. “I require you to answer those questions. I cannot see how they could possibly tend to incriminate you.”
The blood ran out of my body. I started to quiver inside. Here it comes. I’m going to jail. I can’t believe this!
Shapiro seemed calm and confident. He looked at the judge and firmly said, “May I see you in your chambers, your honor? I have an offer of proof to make.”
What the hell is going on? I thought. Fifteen minutes later Shapiro walked out with a smile on his face. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Shapiro later told me that he was direct and to the point with the judge. “Your honor,” he said, “there is no question in my mind that the statements made in answer to any of these questions, based on the previous public statements of the prosecutor and the police, could possibly tend to incriminate my client. That is the only test. However, if I make a disclosure to you, judge, of what those factors are, it would require you to declare a conflict of interest and remove yourself from hearing this case. I, therefore, respectfully request you transfer this matter to another court for an independent hearing of the issue with Mr. Evans’s privilege under the Fifth Amendment.”
The judge was now put in the awkward position of either having to hear Shapiro and run the risk of not being able to continue with the case, or sending the matter out. Since most judges relish high-profile media cases, the outcome Shapiro expected took place.
Judge McKay returned to the bench and stated, “This case is in recess until further notice.”
The courtroom sounded like an aviary. “What happened? What’s going on? What can you tell us?” was coming out of every mouth from every direction.
Shapiro told me to remain calm and that he was very optimistic about the outcome. I walked with him, and he took me to another courtroom where I was allowed to stay in the chambers of another judge he knew; finally he came back and reported that the ruling was in my favor. Shapiro had shown this second judge a notebook of all the case’s press clippings over the last eight years. Just about every article told the same story and included a version of the line that had been haunting me for years: “Bob Evans has not been cleared as a suspect by the district attorney’s office.”
“That simple statement caused the judge to rule in our favor,” Shapiro said. The D.A. had inadvertently, with those few words, put himself in a position where he could not get my testimony. Even though he said in open court, “Bob Evans is merely a witness in this case,” these past statements came back to haunt him.
I thought that would be the end of it, but I was wrong. I walked down the hallway into an elevator, with the press running behind. The cameras were flashing, the reporters demanding I answer questions. The elevator doors closed and we proceeded downstairs to our previously arranged location. We were inconspicuously slipped into a nondescript car and returned to the sanctuary of my home.
I still did not fully comprehend what had taken place. Shapiro calmly described everything and said, “This is the end of it. Evans, you will never have to testify or say a word about The Cotton Club, Roy Radin, and Laynie Jacobs-Greenberger again.”
The preliminary hearing continued for approximately four months. After the first few days, the spectator section began to dwindle. At the end of the hearing, Judge McKay ruled that she had a strong suspicion the defendants were guilty of the charge of murder, and ordered them to stand trial. This was carried as a two-paragraph story on the back page of the Metro section of the Los Angeles Times.
During the months between the arraignment and the beginning of the trial, Shapiro was contacted by just about every attorney in the case. They all wanted to talk to me and all wanted me to testify as a witness for them. Apparently, each felt I had something to offer that would benefit their case. Shapiro remained firm in the idea that I should not talk to anyone and I continued to follow his advice.
About a month before the trial, Shapiro received a call from the prosecutor saying they wanted to subpoena me as a witness. My lawyer ended up having the same conversation he had with the prosecutors over the past year and a half played out again. The prosecutors asserted that Evans would be nothing more than a witness, and there was no reason that I shouldn’t talk to them and testify. Shapiro reiterated that he was very conservative in his approach as an attorney and that under no circumstances would allow me to testify until the time the prosecutors had determined that I was, in their words, “cleared as a suspect.”
What were they looking for? Why were they doing this to me? What purpose did it serve? Certainly all the evidence in the reports pointed to the fact that the overwhelming theme of the murder case was a narcotics rip-off and payback—not the making of The Cotton Club. Why were they persisting? Shapiro remained convinced that it was because my name ensured media attention.
During one meeting, the prosecutor yelled at Shapiro. “These are rough and tough people. These are dope dealers and murderers. I know Evans is scared. He has every reason to be. But we know that Laynie Jacobs told your client, Robert Evans, that Roy Radin was killed, and she no longer had to worry about him! Laynie told him she did it. Laynie told him she did it. There is no other reasonable explanation!”
Shapiro listened patiently and told prosecutor Cohn, “You know Evans had nothing to do with this. You are destroying this man by putting so much pressure on him. This case had nothing to do with The Cotton Club. There was no deal or money. If you check with anyone in Hollywood, the chances of making money on any such project for outside investors are slim at best. To insinuate, with no money changing hands, and just the handshake agreement between people interested in funding a company that never came into existence, was not supported by any facts.”
They would go on and on with the same theme for four months.
Cohn, unyielding: “If he has nothing to hide, why doesn’t he talk to us?”
Shapiro’s response was “If he’s only a witness, come out and say he is.”
They went round and round b
attling like two fighters in a ring. Sometimes losing their tempers, other times talking in civilized tones. But the result was always the same. “Why wouldn’t Evans say that Laynie Jacobs told him she killed Roy Radin?”
And always Shapiro repeating, “Because she never did.”
That was the standstill. Neither side willing to bend one inch. Ultimately, I would have to suffer the consequences. I certainly would not testify and lie simply to satisfy the prosecution’s theory. On the other hand, if I didn’t I would face the logical public conclusion: that if I hadn’t done something wrong, why wasn’t I testifying?
Shapiro responded to the district attorney’s subpoena for me to testify by filing a motion to quash. In lay terms, this means that the subpoena was not properly issued, that I had no testimony to offer, and therefore I should not be required to even come to court. He filed an extensive brief quoting legal precedent that supported our position. It was up to Judge Curtis Rappe, a former high-ranking federal prosecutor trying his first case, to make the ruling.
At the hearing, Shapiro walked back into chambers and I could see that look in his eye—he had prevailed once again. The judge ruled that the privilege to take the Fifth did exist, that it would be redundant for me to testify and redundant for me to come to the witness stand. It would serve no purpose whatsoever. Then, I finally heard the words that I had been waiting for—for eight years.
“Evans, this matter now has to be placed behind you,” Shapiro told me. “You will not be called as a witness. You will not have to testify for any side in this case. Further, you should never discuss this case with anyone. Why? Because somewhere, sometime, some place, there may be some prosecutor or detective who feels something said, even in jest, might have some significance. Remember, Evans, the statute of limitations never runs out in a case like this.”
All the defendants were convicted. Me? Not only was I not convicted, but I was never charged with a crime . . . anything! But I was punished. Punished by innuendos, lies, character assassination, and nightmares that jolted me out of bed in a cold sweat. Punished by disgrace for something I had nothing to do with, something that I had nothing to be ashamed of. Punished by a lifetime of silence. Until the day I die, I am not allowed to discuss the case without consulting with my attorney, Robert Shapiro. The pages you have just read met with his approval.
Only after the verdicts were in did Vanity Fair publish an article, stating that Roy Radin’s murder had nothing to do with The Cotton Club. It was a simple case of drugs and murder.
Radin’s death caused me eight years of living death. Justice? Well I’m still here. Wounded? Sure, but you gotta go on . . . stay in the picture.
A nightmare is a nightmare is a nightmare is a nightmare. But with it came a sense of discovery—call it human relationship. In a hotel room in San Francisco I met Robert Shapiro, a man who became my counsel, rabbi, father confessor, friend, and brother. His services priceless, yet never once a bill. I’ve asked him many a time, “Bob, what’s the number, what do I owe you? I’m no charity case.” It never fails, he just looks at me and smiles.
Chapter Forty
Doors closed on me quietly. Calls made were not returned. Book after book, script after script were submitted. No one ever said yes—they didn’t even say no.
Though still ensconced in the prime offices at Paramount, I may as well have been the Shadow. Popeye and Urban Cowboy hit the screens in 1980. Seven years later, the only product Evans delivered to “the mountain” was embarrassment. Respectful of my past legend, I always got smiles and nods, yet not one discussion led to more than a discussion.
Ending whatever I had left of a legacy to be, my good friend Bob Towne hammered the final nail into my coffin. Now, from legend to leper, I sat alone, the phone not ringing, not an agent submitting.
It was 1987 and Paramount was celebrating its seventy-fifth anniversary. Twenty years earlier, it was me who put my ass on the line, begging to keep the studio from being sold to the cemetery behind us. Now a momentous anniversary picture was to be taken. Close to a hundred actors, actresses, directors, producers, and studio chieftains would gather to pose for this historic shot. It was eerie watching the photographers snap away, less than fifty feet from my office window.
Ali MacGraw, my ex-wife, was among the stars in the shot, no one belonging in it more than she. Love Story—in reality, her child—had kept Paramount alive. Without its success, “the mountain” would have crumbled into anonymity—sold off by its parent company or erased from its ledgers to save further embarrassment. Ali came to my office.
“Evans, hurry, you’re late.”
“I’m not . . . Wasn’t invited.”
Bewildered? Shocked!
“You should be front and center!”
“Comes with the turf, kid,” I said, wiping her eyes with a Kleenex. “Now go out there and give ’em the MacGraw smile.”
For the next hour, there I sat glued to the window. Thinking, thinking, thinking . . . If not for me, graves rather than soundstages would have filled the shot. Once king of “the mountain,” now I was not even allowed to climb it.
A few weeks later, I was informed by memo that the studio was terminating my auto and health insurance.
A month passed and Richard Zimbert, head honcho of business affairs, paid me a rare visit.
“We go back too long, Evans. It’s not me talkin’, it’s the orders I’ve been given. The truth? No one at Paramount wants to do business with you.”
“Been expecting it. When it’s over it’s over.”
“The office, Bob, we need a date.”
“Is ninety days okay, Dick?”
“Sure.”
Quick pat on the shoulder, a quicker exit.
My twenty-year home had been pulled from under me. From behind the gates of Paramount, I was now behind the gates of Woodland. What was once my home, my oasis, my one retreat from the outside world, was now a lobby. During the sixties and seventies, every hour of every day was spent with writers, directors, actors—fantasies came true. Now, in the eighties, I was spending every hour of every day with fund-raisers, so-called entrepreneurs, film financiers, and international consortiums. Individuals with big pockets, small pockets, no pockets, continually coming through my home, all supposedly desperate to be in business with me. Yet bullshit rather than money talked. Weeks turned into months, months into a year. I felt akin to a new girl in town, dating a different guy Friday, Saturday, and Sunday—but no one calls on Monday.
It was gold-rush time, the decade that made millionaires into billionaires. “Entertainment” was handed a new moniker—“communications”—legitimatizing a business once thought of as “fickle flicks” into a high-profiled, profitable industry, its future painted in gold and rightfully so.
The American film is the only product we manufacture that is number one in every country around the globe. It’s the only thing the Japanese can’t knock off, duplicate, or make better. Billions rather than millions became the purchase ticket for a Hollywood studio, so thirsty were our competitor-friends to become members of the elusive club the American film.
Texas and Evans shared one thing: the cash boom of the eighties left us both with a cash drought. While the decade flourished, we both fell from grace. Texas is oil, Hollywood is film. With earthquake force, the price of oil barreled south. With equal tremor, Evans’s career in flicks followed right behind.
In 1982 Forbes magazine featured four of the wealthiest bachelors in Texas. Oil being oil, naturally they were deep in it. Through an intermediary (a choreographer, no less), a big powwow with these guys and eight other Texan oilmen was arranged at my Paramount office; they were all interested in investing in a finely honed business plan that partnered them with Paramount and me. The twelve fat cats arrived in three private jets and spent Friday at Paramount, reviewing, structuring, and restructuring a multifaceted plan. By Saturday afternoon we had consummated a $75 million co-ventured entity. At last a bit of sunshine. The eighties were sta
rting to look good. It was celebration time! A quick invite—but a great turnout! Two hundred candles hung from the ole sycamore, caviar by the kilo, Cristal champagne by the case, many a toast, many an embrace.
Monday morning, all twelve boarded their jets and flew back to their ranches. As their planes landed, it was earthquake time, Texas style. Oil fell out of the barrels, with no buyers to catch its flow. It was 1929 revisited for them there oil guys, as it was for most of Texas. My twelve partners ran for cover? Could be—they haven’t resurfaced yet.
Texas was my state of the eighties. Another intermediary (no choreographer this time, but a distinguished merchant banker) introduced me to a thirty-four-year-old dynamo, a self-made half-billionaire. Young, vital, perceptive, he flipped to be in flicks. Were my pockets empty? Naturally. Did I play my hand strong? Naturally. Talking film with Evans meant doing it on his turf. I wasn’t lazy, but I knew as I drove him through those gates of Paramount that they—not I—became the seducer. This mini-mogul kid was relentless, never tiring. For four days and nights we went at it, naturally surrounded by our legal eagles. On Friday at noon, a deal was consummated and contracts signed. Checks drawn to the tune of twelve million big ones. Were the checks good? Better than government bonds. Partners now, we embraced. He jetted off to Houston. I caviared and crème fraîched it, celebrating my biggest night of the eighties until I watched the sun come up in the morning. A 7:00 A.M. ring of the phone. My throbbing head pounded. Shut it off? Pick it up? Fuck it, I’ll pick it up—fucked I got.
Flying back to Houston on his private jet, my thirty-four-year-old dynamo had a heart attack, his first. He didn’t need another one—he died.
My contemporaries—Barry Diller, Michael Eisner, Stanley Jaffe, Martin Davis, Jeff Katzenberg, Frank Mancuso, and Doug Kramer—shared three things: each ascended to become a captain of the industry; each at one time in his career was in awe of the much haloed Robert Evans; each looked upon him as a role model and each outroled his model.