After a few similar episodes, it got to the point that the governor was clearly looking for a reason to fire Marie. She wanted my advice. I had to take off my political hat and put on my counselor’s hat (as much as it pained me). She told me that she needed the job and that she was the sole support for her three children. I advised her that unless she had specific evidence of wrongdoing, she was probably better off trying to simply go on doing the best job she could and hoping for the best. Maybe the risk of bad press would deter them, I suggested. Besides, under Tennessee law the board members served at the governor’s pleasure and he could fire her for “good cause,” and good cause had been interpreted to be almost anything that the governor determined it to be.
Within a few days, she was back in my office. It had all hit the fan. The state auditor had carried out a secret audit of Marie’s travel and expense records and found discrepancies. The governor issued a press release and a copy of a letter he was sending to Marie firing her and essentially accusing her of fraudulent conduct. It was all over the newspapers and television. “Well,” I figured, “Marie has finally given them the bullets to shoot her with.”
Instead of being intimidated, Marie was fit to be tied. She wanted to sue the governor for wrongful termination. Marie’s secretary, a loyal administration employee, had filled out the expense sheets for her, and even using the governor’s figures, the discrepancies amounted to a grand total of $59.05 in overcharges to the state. The amount, of course, was not mentioned in the press. Marie sneaked out a copy of her own records, and as we went over them in my office, it was obvious that what we were looking at was a penny-ante hatchet job on Marie.
Still, I tried to talk her out of a lawsuit. They could make her life miserable in ways that she could not understand. It was best that she get on with her life, et cetera, et cetera. I figured that the governor’s office was undoubtedly applying pressure on the board for political reasons; that was wrong, maybe scandalous, but probably not illegal. On top of that, Marie had uttered the most terrifying words that a lawyer can ever hear: “I am broke.” Still, she was adamant. “What about a contingency fee?” she asked.
“One-third of nothing is not much of a fee,” I replied.
“There is no way that a jury would side with them on this,” she countered.
“We probably can’t get a jury trial,” I added. Back and forth we went.
The more I thought about it, the more I knew she was right about one thing: What they had done to her was cruel and unfair. The governor’s letter was designed not just to fire her but to punish her. From all I could learn, Marie had been extremely conscientious, working overtime to upgrade a parole board that sorely needed it. She was adamant that the law be followed and cases be decided on their merits. For that, the governor had impugned her integrity and tried to humiliate her for his own nefarious reasons, whatever they were. I could see the theme of a trial emerging: “The governor didn’t fire this woman because she was not doing her job. He fired her because she was doing her job.” Sounded pretty good. What the heck. I wasn’t that busy, and I never did like Blanton anyway. It would be fun to rattle his cage. So I took the case on a contingency, and we did manage to get the judge to give us a jury trial. Now we were playing in our ballpark.
Unbeknownst to us, the FBI had put this information together with other leads they had in their possession, resulting in a very troubling picture of potential widespread corruption in the Blanton administration. Before long, Marie was working with them closely. It seems that our civil trial for wrongful termination was going to be the tip of a very large iceberg. Although the proof was still developing and Marie and I were limited to the facts of our case, we were able to paint enough of a picture of what was going on in Tennessee’s criminal justice system that the truth became apparent during our trial. She had been the only impediment to putting rapists and murderers back on the street after serving absurdly short periods of time in jail. Much to everyone’s surprise (including my own), we won our case, even though one of our key witnesses had been mysteriously murdered days before the trial.
The verdict was front-page news across the state, with all the details of all the suspicious circumstances, and soon people began to come forward with additional information. Then the FBI developed an informant, and after that they carried out a sting operation. The governor’s house of cards came tumbling down. His legal counsel and his assistant had been selling pardons and paroles out of the governor’s office. They were convicted and sent to prison. Ray Blanton was convicted of selling a liquor license.
A few months after our trial, I received another call from Marie. She wanted to know if I wanted to go with her to listen to a talk that was being given by Peter Maas, the famous author of many books, including Serpico, The Valachi Papers, and The King of the Gypsies. He was appearing at a function in Nashville, and she wanted to tell him her story. I probably rolled my eyes while politely declining. The next day, she called me again. She said that she had met Peter Maas; that they had had a long talk, she told him the Blanton story, and she thought he might be interested in writing something about it.
I assumed the role of the wise and worldly older brother and explained that probably what Peter was interested in was her and that she shouldn’t allow him to lead her on. After all, a governor going to jail was not that big of a story. A week or so later, she called me back. “Peter is still interested in doing something with our story,” she said.
Losing patience, I said, “If he is interested in this story, have him come to see me and explain why one of the best-known writers of nonfiction in America thinks that this Tennessee tale is worthy of his time.”
A few days later, lo and behold, with Marie in tow, Peter Maas, a sporty gentleman with a shock of gray hair and dark bushy eyebrows, was sitting across from me in my office, chain-smoking dark cigarillos, and answering my questions. “It’s not a political story, it’s a personal story—a courageous woman’s story. This battered divorcée, sole support of her three children, working at everything from a cocktail waitress to volunteering at the Catholic church, putting herself through Vanderbilt University, who had the best job that she’d ever had—this woman put it all on the line (the only one to do so) in order to stand up for the right thing. And this, by the way, was while all of the men around her were cowering.”
“Wow,” I said. “Doggone it, I knew we had a story here.” It was Marie’s turn to roll her eyes.
I went to New York and negotiated the book deal with Sam Cohn of ICM, Peter’s agent. The result was Marie: A True Story, published a year later, in which Peter followed the original vision he’d outlined in my office. The lead-up to our trial was the integral part of the story, with the trial itself written as the closing chapter. Marie and I were both pleased with the final product and marveled at the research that had gone into the book—the detail and drama that this consummate professional was able to weave together. And Marie deserved to have her story told. But the story was not quite over.
Of course, it never occurred to me at the time that just about everything Peter Maas had ever written was made into a movie or a television treatment. Sure enough, Dino De Laurentiis, the legendary film producer, bought the rights to Marie. I was pleased, but I took no special note of it. I was back to building my law practice and making a living, which meant bringing in some cases more remunerative than Marie’s had been.
Several weeks later, however, I found myself enjoying a pleasant change of pace reliving the Marie–Blanton saga over drinks and dinner with some new acquaintances. In Nashville, we were used to rubbing shoulders with country music stars (I had briefly represented Waylon Jennings, and I sued George Jones for another client), but we didn’t get a lot of Hollywood traffic. But that night, I was having dinner with the producer, Frank Capra, Jr., and the director, Roger Donaldson. They were going to make the Marie movie and were talking with people who had had a part in the real-life drama in order to get the flavor of the story and to help them
in supervising the writing of the script. I was one of many they were talking to, but we hit it off and over the next few months had periodic bull sessions. They told me that Debra Winger was considered for the role of Marie but that the part went to Sissy Spacek. They mentioned other potential cast members, including someone who was going to have a small role as one of the other board members, a little-known actor by the name of Morgan Freeman. Part of the movie would be shot in Nashville. Some Nashvillians would probably be used for “walk-on” parts, and they told me they would put me on the list. That was fine with me; I thought it would give me a chance to see how a movie was made.
One day a few weeks later, I was in the office when Roger Donaldson called. They were going to have a casting call at the Sheraton Hotel across the street from my office and asked if I would be interested in coming over and reading something for them. He said he would send it over in advance. “Sure,” I said, “we can catch up.” As I hung up, I could envision a scene where I would walk in and say something like, “Your car is waiting, ma’am,” and on opening night my friends and I could laugh about it.
The line of people waiting to get into the Sheraton for auditions for the walk-ons and extras went around the block. In fact, my daughter Betsy, then twenty-one, and my longtime assistant, Bobbie Murphy, were in the line, and both became extras. My movie-mogul friends had already arranged for me to come in a side door to save me the embarrassment from appearing to do exactly what I was doing. I wasn’t above being one of the mob clamoring to get a bit part in a movie, but I was above anybody knowing that I was doing it. A professional man has got an image to keep up. The guys back in Lawrenceburg would certainly not have approved of me sneaking in a side door to get a bit part in a movie.
A couple of hours before I went over to the Sheraton, a few pages that looked like part of a movie script arrived. It was a scene with Marie Ragghianti and “Fred.” Being quick on the uptake, I concluded that that would be me. Whoa, this was getting interesting. It had never occurred to me that my character would have a part in the movie. I assumed that for courtroom scenes they would use fictionalized versions of the characters other than Marie.
I went over and was taken to a hotel room with a small motion-picture camera on a tripod in the corner of the room. I told Roger, “Hey, I don’t do porn movies unless the pay is right.” “You wish,” Roger replied. Roger introduced me to the only other person in the room, Lynn Stalmaster, who I later learned was one of the leading casting directors in Hollywood. I sat down in front of the camera, and Lynn stood behind it and read Marie’s part as we did the scene (with me looking down at the script as needed). When we finished, Stalmaster said, “Not bad,” and walked out.
I asked Roger what was going on. He told me that my character was in several scenes in the movie, including the trial, the lead-up to the trial, and noncourtroom stuff such as the scene we had just read. Several guys screen-tested for my role, but the producers weren’t satisfied. They decided to give me a shot at it if I was interested. Things were moving from interesting to a little bizarre.
Back in my office, I had to laugh at the thought of it. It occurred to me that if I was going to play myself, they couldn’t tell me that I was doing it wrong (an incorrect assumption, I later learned). I refused to let myself take it seriously. I didn’t know much about show business, but I knew enough to know that they didn’t walk up to a guy who had never been in so much as a high school play and say, “How would you like to play yourself in a movie?” Besides, what about my schedule? I probably couldn’t do it if I wanted to. On the other hand, if it did happen, wouldn’t it be a kick. Maybe I could act. Some might say I had been doing it for several years. Then I would snap out of it, and it would be “Thompson, quit being an idiot. Get back to work on that brief.”
It was more than a month before Roger called again. I had long since relegated the matter to the back of my mind. “Mr. De Laurentiis wants to know if you could come to New York and read another scene for us.” My first reaction was to tell him that I couldn’t possibly make it before eight o’clock the next morning, but that might have appeared to be overly eager.
A few days later I was in New York before the camera again, except there were several more people present. It was apparent that they were not all there for me. Actors were all over the place auditioning for minor roles. De Laurentiis didn’t attend this session. He watched the film later. Many months later, I was told that when he first saw me on the screen, he pointed and exclaimed in a heavy Italian accent, “Blan-ton, Blan-ton.” He apparently thought I would be perfect for the role of Ray Blanton. “No, Fred Thompson,” Roger told him. “No, Blan-ton,” De Laurentiis insisted. “No, that really is Fred Thompson,” Roger tried to explain. Roger finally persuaded him that it would not be a good idea for me to play Ray Blanton.
Before long, Frank Capra was in my office again. They wanted me to take the part—to play myself in the movie. By then I had read the script and knew that it would be a sizable role. Wow. By the time of the meeting, I was definitely up for taking on this new challenge if it came my way. It was a door I wanted to walk through. In weighing the situation, it seemed to me that it presented a disadvantage and an advantage. The disadvantage was not knowing what the heck I was doing. The advantage was that by not being an actor, and by being totally out of my element, if I fell on my face it would not be that big a deal. I’d never had an acting lesson (later a buddy told me that for those who had seen my work, it wasn’t necessary for me to point this out anymore). Anyway, Frank got down to business and asked me if I had an agent. “Of course not,” I replied, but I was a lawyer and had in fact negotiated the original Marie book deal. Then I proceeded to prove that a lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client. Capra said we needed to talk about money. I think I stopped myself barely in time—because my first thought was “I wonder how much he expects me to pay them?” I let him talk long enough for me to see that they were going to pay me an amount I considered to be a fair fee for this lark. Besides, what difference did the amount make? This was a one-time deal. It wasn’t like the amount was going to set a precedent that other filmmakers could use against me in the future when I might want more money. R-i-i-g-h-t.
Of course, this turned out to be the first of twenty feature-film roles for me, as well as numerous television roles and commercials. The decision to take one of the least remunerative and longest-shot cases I’d ever had led to one of the most interesting chapters of my life. It’s like I opened the door to what I thought was the courthouse and walked into Disneyland.
Maybe it wasn’t so outlandish for me to think I could play different characters. After all, I’d grown up with a pretty rich assortment of them in Lawrenceburg, starting with my own family. And speaking of family, parents should be mindful that when they tell a kid he or she can do anything they set their mind to, as I was told. The kid might just believe it, whether the parent does or not. So tell them. This was very much on my mind a few years ago when they had a little ceremony for me in Lawrenceburg and had me leave my autograph and foot- and handprints in wet cement in front of the old Crockett Theater, where I had spent so much time in my youth. (One old-timer said he wasn’t surprised to learn that my feet were in concrete but he never thought it would be for an occasion such as this.)
In an additional irony, it was my brother Ken, eight years younger, who turned out to be the real actor. Well trained, he has appeared on stage in numerous professional productions. Most remarkable of all, after I told him I was going to be in the movies and his knowing that previously I had no interest or preparation, he was still speaking to me.
But anyway, Johnny, I’m terribly sorry about that movie star club thing.
DURING MY EIGHTH-GRADE YEAR, we moved to Nashville. Dad wanted to try his hand at selling cars for a dealership in the big city. We rented the smallest house in a nice neighborhood, close to a church Mom and Dad had selected. I enrolled at the Glendale Public School, one of the best in the area. The
governor’s son and a bank president’s sons were in my class. I was undoubtedly the only kid in the eighth grade who didn’t have a suit or know how to dance. I most definitely did not make up for my deficiencies with academic achievement. They were studying a different kind of math. Of course, for me any kind of math would have been different—ever since I learned my multiplication tables, I sort of rested on my laurels—but out of embarrassment I struggled and tried harder. Dad said to me, “I told you, son, if you want any help from me you are going to have to stay in the seventh grade.” As usual, Dad’s humor contained an element of truth.
To top off the year, I couldn’t make the softball team and got turned down when I finally mustered up the courage to ask a girl out on what would have been my first date. Other than that, it was a great year. Actually, it didn’t work out too well for any of us. Dad, whose business had always depended on his personal relationships built over many years, was pretty much of a lost ball in the high weeds in the Nashville car market. And my little brother, Ken, came down with rheumatic fever. If all of this seems like the makings of a bad country song, it seemed that way to us, too. As for me, something clearly drastic had to be done. I was going to have to either really buckle down and shape up or leave town. Thankfully, we left town. We moved back to Lawrenceburg. Mom had to clean up two new houses within one year. But Lawrenceburg never looked so good.
Teaching the Pig to Dance Page 6