Unscripted

by Davis Bunn

  She walked downstairs and was greeted by her mother handing her a to-go cup of coffee, a kiss, and the words, “Your father wants to meet Danny.”

  “Good morning to you too.”

  “Invite him to dinner.”

  “Mom, he’s a client.”

  Her mother’s response surprised Megan. Dimples appeared, but she did not smile. Instead, she hugged her daughter and asked, “Do you think he’d like my brisket?”

  Megan joined the 101 and headed north to San Luis Obispo in her secondhand Suzuki SUV. Four months earlier, she’d become eligible for a company car. She had listened to her colleagues debate the options—mostly BMWs and Mercedes, one Cadillac, a couple of Porsches—and felt nothing. As she took the downtown exit, she found herself wondering if this had been her first subconscious indication that she did not plan on staying around long enough to enjoy the perk.

  She arrived at the law offices of Sol Feinnes at a quarter past seven. The parking lot behind the building had two rows of reserved spaces, eight of which were already occupied. Convenient, since Megan didn’t have a key. The security agent on lobby duty recognized her name and told her to stop by later so the day crew could fix her up with an ID. The firm’s reception desk was empty, but several of the staffers were already intent on their work. Two ladies smiled and wished her a good morning as if they had been doing so for years.

  Megan started to ask if she had been assigned an office when Sol stepped into the central chamber. “Megan, excellent. I have court, but I want to speak with you first. Come on in.” He led her around the bull pen to the corner office, waved her in, and slipped back behind his desk. “How did it go yesterday?”

  She gave him a swift recap and finished with, “Danny asked me to represent him. I agreed to a straight contingency. Ten percent.”

  “Good on both counts. What do you think of Danny?”

  “Before I get into that, can I ask for some background on the hotel?”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “I’d rather you didn’t just yet. I’m representing . . .” He stopped at a knock on his open door.

  Sonya Barrett, the woman who had effectively interviewed Megan, asked, “Mind if I sit in?”

  Sol waved her into the seat beside Megan’s and said, “I want Sonya to serve as your liaison. I’m in the middle of a major court battle and won’t be available as much as I might like.”

  Megan could not help but compare this to her previous existence, where Aaron remained isolated behind layers of associates. “Understood.”

  “If you need anything, feel free to get in touch. Day or night.” He turned to Sonya. “I was about to explain how I needed her to remain as a buffer between Danny Byrd and the events surrounding his inheritance.”

  Sonya said to Megan, “Everything is legally aboveboard. But Sol was given strict marching orders by a long-standing client. It’s important we not be placed in a position that leads to Sol or me divulging things before our client is ready.”

  Sol noticed Megan’s crimped features and demanded, “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. It’s . . .”

  Sonya offered a knowing smile. “Different from how law is practiced in your old firm?”

  “Totally.”

  Sonya said, “My assistant’s name is Reggie. He’s a gem. I suggest we share him for a while, until you get your sea legs. But if you prefer . . .”

  “No, no. That’s fine.”

  Sol said, “Recap for Sonya what you just told me.”

  Megan had no objection to repeating herself. She liked how they listened to her. Even with the pressure of a heavy caseload, Sol gave Megan his full attention. When she was done, he said once more, “Tell me about Danny.”

  “On the surface, the day was totally chaotic. The speed, this young girl, the filming, it was too much too fast. But Danny kept it all under control. More than that, he didn’t impose his opinion on anyone. He wanted us to form our own impressions.”

  Sol said, “You trusted him.”

  “Yes. And so did the others.” She hesitated, then added, “I think Danny’s attitude yesterday basically describes who he is, even at the worst of times.”

  “Explain.”

  “The one word that describes most of the producers I’ve met is, they claim. They take what might one day be reality and claim it’s theirs today. Money, rights, stars, projects, whatever. Their lives are shaped by hype.”

  “Not Danny.”

  “Right. He hasn’t said anything about what might happen because there’s nothing concrete to offer. But I think he wants . . .”

  Sonya said, “Give us your best guess.”

  “The Chinese would-be investor, Zhang. He considered Danny to be singular. The fact that Danny was arrested and imprisoned didn’t shake Zhang’s confidence in the guy.”

  Sonya asked, “Any aftereffects from his recent adversity?”

  “Not in his work. At least, not that I could tell. Remember, my first direct contact with him was in jail. But . . .”

  “Tell us,” Sonya said.

  “I see why people like working with him,” Megan replied. “If yesterday is anything to go on, Danny Byrd is a man on the rise.”

  There was another exchange of silent communication between Sol and his associate. Then he said, “What next?”

  “Greg Riggs has arranged a meeting this afternoon with the executives at CBC responsible for this Valentine movie. Danny wants me to attend.”

  “You absolutely need to be there.”

  “I intend to.” She looked from one to the other. “Sorry, but what is your office policy on things like billing and expenses?”

  “I can run through all that with you,” Sonya said.

  Sol asked, “Any idea who represents the producer Riggs?”

  “I asked his associate, a writer named Annie Callow. It’s Wright-Patten.”

  Sonya grimaced. “My old firm. I doubt Greg Riggs is getting any better treatment than your Chinese investor was by K&K.”

  Megan nodded. Being repped by one of the big firms lent young producers like Greg Riggs a stamp of credibility. Even so, his business was treated as second-tier, fobbed off to junior associates, and discounted as unimportant.

  Sonya went on, “I’ll call a friend and find out who’s the attorney of record.”

  Sol glanced at his watch. “I’m due across town in fifteen minutes.”

  Megan halted him from rising with, “Wait.” But when he settled back, she found it difficult to express what she was thinking. Which was, in the space of this exchange, she had walked into her dream come true. It was difficult to shape the words. “I’d just like to say thanks.”

  17

  FOR ONCE, Megan did not mind becoming caught in the LA morning snarl. She took the Westwood exit and headed inland, traveling slowly enough to ponder what lay ahead. And prepare.

  The Chambers building was on Wilshire, three doors down from the Beverly Hills Ferrari and Maserati dealership. Megan had been inside several times, always playing junior to Aaron or another K&K partner. More often than not, the partner parked below the dealership so as to have an excuse to stop in and pet his next purchase.

  The Chambers production studios were located eleven miles away in the San Fernando Valley. Megan’s former bosses all liked how the separation kept them from needing to associate with the common people. She, on the other hand, had always thought this was a terrible mistake. The Chambers executives excused this division by describing how their parent group had acquired the Wilshire office building with the cable channel, which was now the jewel at the center of the Chambers crown.

  The executives fought to be here, in the city of glitz and glamour. The problem was, they were now separated by more than just the San Fernando hills from where the real work was being done. Megan had been to the production studios dozens of times and had long ago decided that those people realized the truth. The Valley was where the real world began. They understood the tastes and expectations of the audience out
in Kansas City. The Beverly Hills executives didn’t have a clue. They were too busy playing their Hollywood games to pay attention to the world beyond their manicured lawns.

  Which was how, Megan suspected, the Chambers group had wound up in their current mess. Nine weeks and counting from an airdate, with no product.

  These execs had probably signed a production deal with a group that happened to be the flavor of the month with the Rodeo Drive flakes. But when they were caught wearing the emperor’s clothes, these executives went looking for a real-world crew. Which led them to Greg Riggs. And Danny. And now her.

  The problem was, Megan feared the story did not end there. Because now these same Chambers execs needed a victim. Someone they could pass the blame to. And thus save their Valentino-clad hides.

  The question she desperately needed to answer was, did they see Greg and Danny as potential saviors of their project or made-to-order victims?

  When Danny arrived with Greg and Annie an hour later, Megan thought she knew what was going to happen next.

  Danny looked like he had not slept. The circles under his eyes were dark as bruises. Megan studied the three faces and saw the uncertainty of people who felt as though they didn’t belong. Beggars knocking on the door of power rather than people coming to save the day. She had seen the expression often enough. Viewing it on these good people made her angry.

  Megan did her best to stifle her mounting rage as she drew them into the corner farthest from the reception desk. “If I wasn’t here, how would you handle this?”

  “Give them a look at Emma’s tape,” Greg replied.

  “Make our story suggestions,” Annie said. “Which is bogus, because we can’t work the script until we know the budget.”

  “But we have to dance to their tune,” Danny said.

  Greg nodded. “Hopefully leave with a green light. Timing is everything.”

  That was the logical course of action. Megan did not do what she wanted, which was to say she thought they had it all wrong. Instead she merely asked, “What if they had an ulterior motive for agreeing to meet with you today?”

  All three stared at her. Danny asked, “What do you mean?”

  Megan studied their weary faces and returned to what she had suggested the previous day. “Let me be on point. I will push hard for your side. If it all falls apart, you’ll have the pleasure of firing me in public.”

  “Not a chance,” Danny said.

  Annie actually smiled. “I’m feeling a lot better about this than I was thirty seconds ago.”

  “Really?” Greg asked.

  Annie pointed her chin at Megan. “The lady’s a winner. I know it. I say we go with her lead.”

  Danny said, “I second that.”

  Greg hesitated, then said, “Go for it.”

  Danny’s confidence did a lot to calm Megan’s internal cauldron. Then she saw the receptionist’s gesture and said, “Showtime.”

  Greg Riggs’s contact at Chambers Broadcasting was a low-level executive about Megan’s age named Rand Bethany. Rand wore skinny black jeans with a starched white blouse that draped down like a miniskirt. Her purple canvas lace-up shoes matched the streaks in her dark hair. The violet-tinted contact lenses only highlighted her nervous, darting gaze.

  Accompanying her was an older woman Rand didn’t introduce. Megan had to assume this was the accountant responsible for the project. She was heavyset, very still, and dressed entirely in slate grey. The older woman followed them into the first-floor conference room and seated herself four chairs removed from Rand.

  Annie was at complete odds with the conference room’s dismal atmosphere. She half skipped from chair to chair, giving each a little twist in passing, like she was trying to find the one that would spin her most easily. Finally she settled farther down the oval table and patted the chair next to her. “Greg, come join.”

  Danny remained standing by the door as Greg slipped into the chair next to Annie. Megan seated herself across from Rand and pulled out the chair beside her. Danny walked over and sat down. The action was not lost on the two women seated across from her.

  Rand asked, “Who am I dealing with here?”

  “My name is Megan Pierce. I am attorney of record.”

  “My relationship is with Greg Riggs.”

  “Today you deal with me,” Megan replied. “I don’t know what you did to deserve being handed this bomb, but it must have been really bad.”

  To her credit, Rand gave as good as she got. “Wait. I’m hearing this from the lawyer representing a guy who just got out of jail?”

  “Correct. And allow me to finish that sentence for you. ‘After being cleared of all charges and receiving a formal apology from the prosecutor’s office.’”

  “So why did you ask for this meeting, Ms. . . .”

  “Pierce. We need to settle on the budget.”

  “The budget is set. One point two.”

  “In that case, we are not interested.”

  Rand started to glance at her associate, then caught herself. “This project was agreed to by—”

  “Correction. You reduced the budget below your initial offer. As a result, there is no agreement.” Megan had a whole host of reasons to dislike this woman, starting with her attitude. But there were too many similarities to her own recent status. When Rand remained silent, watchful, Megan decided to go with her gut. “My clients have a concept, something that could turn the wretched vacuum in your channel’s time slot into a genuine winner for everyone concerned.”

  “Oh, wait. Where have I heard that before,” Rand scoffed. But her gaze was still now. Focused. Intent.

  “What I need,” Megan said, “is to know if you are able to look beyond your own current status.”

  “This has nothing to do—”

  “Having the senior executives paint a target on your back,” Megan said, motioning to the silent woman seated four chairs away. “Setting you up to take the blame for a failure that isn’t your fault. Being fired and sent back to Des Moines.”

  Rand did not respond.

  “For us to proceed, you first need to accept that we have something big. This is no longer about salvaging the situation. It’s about creating a hit.”

  “Is this going somewhere?”

  “Absolutely,” Megan replied. “Moving forward on this project will cost you four million dollars.”

  18

  THE GREY-SUITED ACCOUNTANT spoke for the first time. “Out of the question.”

  Megan kept her gaze on Rand. “And something else. Your group must agree that you are their on-site representative. We deal only with you. We don’t have time for any more back-and-forth.”

  Megan had adopted the negotiating stance she had seen her former boss take any number of times. She might dislike the attitude Aaron showed his firm’s junior staff. She might despise his scorn for smaller projects. But it did not make him a bad lawyer or a poor negotiator. K&K had climbed to the top of the Hollywood heap by being excellent at this. Megan had watched. Studied. Learned. Now it was her turn.

  “We need one ally,” she went on. “Just one. You must have signatory powers on everything to do with the project.”

  “Back up a second,” the accountant said.

  But Megan had no intention of allowing them to dictate terms or pace or direction. The longer they held back, the farther behind they fell. She focused solely on Rand. “We don’t just want you on board. You have to be on location. At least one day per week through the shoot, and as much as possible in postproduction. We’ll be writing and editing as we shoot. Somebody needs to help us maintain our harmony with Chambers and their perspective. It’s the only way we can deliver the project on time.” Rand said, “You’re saying the story’s not complete?”

  Danny spoke for the first time since entering the room. “How can it be, when you won’t show us what the original production group came up with?”

  “We have to assume it was pretty awful,” Annie said. “Total garbage. Which means some
higher-up is trying to save their sorry hide by attaching the blame target to your back.”

  Rand did not reply.

  Greg said, “There wasn’t a completed script when they started shooting Casablanca.”

  “Or Gladiator,” Annie added. “Both started with studio-approved concepts. Nothing more.”

  Rand looked from one to the other. She was far from being on board. But at least her hostility was gone now. And her derision. “Does this mean you have a concept?”

  Danny started to pull his laptop from his case. “Absolutely.”

  Megan reached over and halted him with a touch to his arm. “Actually, before we get to that, you must first accept that we are no longer discussing a limited budget and a second-rate project.”

  “One that will probably cost you and a few of the innocent Valley guys your careers,” Annie said.

  “We’re working on a hit,” Megan said. “And we expect everyone at Chambers who is involved to treat us and our project as exactly that.”

  The accountant said, “And the alternative is . . .”

  “My group is prepared to walk away,” Megan replied. “We have something very special here. We intend to see it through. On our terms.”

  Rand said, “We own the title.”

  “Oh, please,” Annie said.

  “We have no objection to your holding on to the title,” Megan replied. “Or your empty airdate.”

  When the two women didn’t respond, Megan rose to her feet and lifted the others with her gaze. “If you are interested in participating in our winner of a project, you have until this time tomorrow to join us.”

  They were almost at the door when Annie turned back and actually sang the words, “Tick tock.”