by John Scalzi
Credit where credit is due: Mike Mizuhara was as good as his word. He had the ICU ward sealed off; everyone who stepped off the elevator or out of the stairwell was greeted by a Pomona city cop, who had a printed list. On the list was the name and, more importantly, the photograph, of every doctor, nurse, and staff member who had access to the third floor. Anyone who showed up on the third floor without permission was quickly and efficiently arrested for trespassing.
By 8 a.m., more than a dozen people, posing as doctors, nurses, or staff, were in the pokey. A couple of them, from the tabloids, tried to bribe the officers. The officers were not amused; they had integrity, and besides, Mike Mizuhara had informed them that any bribe would be matched, plus ten percent; I later learned that Carl, who had bankrolled this effort, ended up shelling out nearly $25,000. The would-be bribers ended up in the pokey like everyone else, their money confiscated as evidence.
One amateur video guy, hoping to sell his tape to the afternoon tabloid shows, simply got on the elevator and, when the door opened on the third floor, sprinted down the hall, yodeling, waving his video camera wildly in hopes that a frame or two would later show Michelle in her bed. He was surprised when the cop stationed at the stairwell popped up in front of him. He was even more surprised when the cop shot him with a taser. He was given his props for the attempt, but went to the slammer anyway.
When it became clear that no one was getting onto the third floor, more drastic measures were attempted: four people were arrested when they tried to trip the fire alarms to cause an evacuation—three by pulling the fire alarm, one by setting fire to that morning’s edition of the Inland Daily Bulletin and waving it at the smoke alarm. He was caught by an orderly’s flying tackle; the tackle cracked his skull on the floor. He was treated for concussion on the spot, and then transferred to the county jail infirmary.
As Carl suggested, I went into work at the usual time. I took Joshua with me, at his insistence. “I want to do something for you,” he said, though he wouldn’t explain what. On the way in, I flipped through the radio stations. Nearly all the radio stations were talking about Michelle; on one, the DJ was lamenting the fact that Michelle’s possible death brought down the number of people on Earth worth screwing. On another radio station, a caller had noted proudly that he had uploaded the faked picture of the three-way between Michelle, George Clooney and Lindsay Lohan onto every single pornographic blog and newsgroup as a “tribute.”
The entrance to Lupo Associates was swarmed with reporters, camera operators, and sound men. As I parked I saw Jim Van Doren near the periphery of the crowd, scanning the parking lot for my car; he spotted it and started moving towards it. Some of the more alert camera operators followed him; within seconds a stampede was coming toward my car.
“Oh, shit,” I said.
“Let me out of the car,” Joshua said. “Then follow me. Get ready to run.”
I hopped out of the car and let Joshua out. Joshua hit the ground running and hurled himself at the oncoming swarm, snarling and baring his fangs. There was chaos as members of the press retreated, screaming, from Joshua’s full frontal assault; suddenly a path miraculously appeared through them. I set out at a sprint. Reporters, torn between being bitten by an angry dog and getting their story, hollered questions at me as they retreated; their sound people desperately swung their boom mikes towards me to catch my response. At least one of the boom mikes connected with a camera operator. I heard a crunch as a $75,000 video camera hit the ground but didn’t stay to watch.
Joshua snarled one last snarl, then raced towards the agency entrance, getting there at the same time as I did. We were met at the door by Miranda, who unlocked it just long enough to let us through, and then pushed it shut again the second we were inside.
I turned around, expecting to see the reporters pressed up against the glass, shouting questions. Instead, there was a riot going on in the parking lot. Apparently the cameraman who got whacked by the boom mike had decided to take the cost of the damage out of the mike operator’s hide. A couple of people were trying to separate the two; the rest, drawn into the melee, were content to start swinging. There’s something deeply satisfying about watching some of the most over-paid reporters in the country slugging each other, pulling each other’s hair, and kneeing each other in the groin.
“Tom, you should have been a movie star,” Miranda said. “You sure know how to make a hell of an entrance.”
“It’s not me that did all that,” I said, still looking at the crowd. “You can thank my furry friend Joshua over there.”
Off to the side of the riot, Jim Van Doren leaned against a car. He looked at the fight, then turned to look at me. Then he saluted. What a kidder.
“Did you do that, Joshua?” Miranda said, in that voice you use with dogs. “What a good dog!”
Joshua barked happily.
I spoke to the press at noon, like we had planned. Carl had flown in Mike Mizuhara and Dr. Adams from Pomona Valley; all four of us were standing at a podium that had been put in front of the agency’s entrance. Slightly off to one side, Miranda sat, petting Joshua, who sat attentively, waiting for a reporter to get too far out of line. I was told that the press announcement was being carried live on three of the local stations and also on the E! Channel. For some reason, I found this profoundly irritating.
Precisely at noon, I stepped up to the podium, tapped the microphone to make sure it was on, and got out my prepared statement.
“Good afternoon,” I said, because at thirty seconds past noon, it was. “Since early this morning, the media has been filled with rumors concerning the well-being of my client Michelle Beck. It has come time to answer these rumors with the facts.
“First, and most important—Michelle Beck is not dead, nor is she near death. Rumors of her death have been irresponsibly spread; let them end here.
“Second, yesterday, at about 4 p.m., Miss Beck was involved in an accident during preproduction work on Earth Resurrected. The accident caused her to be suffocated; first aid was administered at the scene, and Miss Beck was then taken to Pomona Valley Hospital, where she remains now.
“Miss Beck has not regained consciousness since the accident, nor is there a timetable for her to do so. After I am done, Dr. Adams, who treated Michelle when she came in, and Dr. Mizuhara, the chief of staff of Pomona Valley, will give a brief medical update on Miss Beck’s condition and will answer questions that relate to her medical condition.
“Those of us who know her are praying for her recovery and hope that her fans worldwide will also do so. However, we ask that you do not attempt to visit her; she needs rest and quiet. Pomona Valley Hospital and the Pomona Police Department will not hesitate to arrest and prosecute any unauthorized attempts to visit Miss Beck. Please respect this request: it’s in Miss Beck’s best interests.
“Pomona Valley has also requested me to ask fans and admirers to stop sending flowers and fruit baskets—their waiting room is clogged and after this point they will just be thrown out. If you feel you must do something, please write a check to the Pomona Valley Hospital general fund. I know that Michelle would greatly prefer that to flowers—these people are helping her and they deserve all our support.”
I folded up the prepared statement and asked if there were questions. Obviously, there were.
“What will happen to Michelle if she doesn’t emerge from her coma?” asked the reporter from Entertainment Weekly. “Will she stay on a respirator or will she eventually be disconnected?”
“We haven’t even thought about that yet,” I said. “Nor have the doctors at Pomona Valley given us any indication that’s where things are going. Until we know her medical situation a little better, it would be premature to think about it.”
“Who is the one that will eventually make that decision?” asked the anchor of Inside Story. “Her parents or some other relative?”
“Michelle’s parents passed away a couple of years ago,” I said, “and she has no other family. When I got
to the hospital, I was told that I was the person to whom she entrusted her emergency medical decisions. So I suppose if that decision has to be made, I’ll be the one to make it.”
This answer caused a mild stir. I pointed to the reporter from the Los Angeles Times, but before she could ask her question, someone in the back hollered a question.
“Do you think it’s appropriate for you to make that decision?”
Everyone’s head swiveled around. It was Jim Van Doren, of course.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“I said, do you feel it’s appropriate for you to be the one that makes that decision? Yes, you’re her agent, but recently, there’s been some question about your own work and the way you’ve treated some of your clients. Do you really think it’s wise for you to be the one who makes this life-or-death decision?”
Over to the side of me, I could hear Joshua growling lowly. I knew how he felt.
“Listen,” I said. “I never asked to be the one Michelle gave this responsibility to. Drs. Adams and Mizuhara can tell you how surprised I was when I was told about it. Would I have wanted this responsibility? No. Will I refuse it now? No.”
“Uh-huh,” Van Doren said. “Are you the beneficiary of her estate?”
“What?” I said.
“I’m just thinking here,” Van Doren said. “If you’re the person she trusts with her life, you’re probably the person that’d benefit from her death. She just got $12 million for Earth Resurrected; that’s a lot. So are you the beneficiary? Or will that be a surprise, too?”
The crowd of reporters erupted. I just stood there, blinking, stunned that Van Doren could just casually imply that I was a crazed murderer. On the other hand, he was driving me insane, and if he’d been in reach, I probably could have killed him right there. Van Doren just stood there, with a little smile that said gotcha.
I was still gripping the side of the podium when Carl tapped me and gently dislodged me from where I was standing. Miranda came up to me and pulled me back away. Joshua looked up at me worriedly. I heard Carl speaking to the reporters—“Let’s try to keep our eye on the ball, here …” he began—and then wheeled around into the building.
I stormed into my office and went to my office closet. Miranda came in about a second afterwards, followed by Joshua.
“What are you doing?” Miranda asked.
“Tony Baltz got me a set of golf clubs last Christmas,” I said, rummaging. “I’m going to take one and put a divot in Van Doren’s head. What do you think? The five iron? Or maybe the nine. Or the putter, right between the eyes.”
“I don’t think that would be very helpful,” Miranda said.
“Oh, I think it would,” I said. I emerged with the seven iron in my hand. “It would make me feel a lot better.”
“Only for a minute,” Miranda said. “But I have to warn you, prison is just one long bummer.”
I burst into tears. No one was more surprised than I. Miranda rushed over and held me, returning the favor from the day before, when I had done the same for her.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s not every day that I’m accused of murdering my client.”
“Oh, shut up,” Miranda said gently, cupping my face in her hand. “You didn’t kill her, did you?”
“Of course not,” I said.
“Well, then,” Miranda said. “Don’t let it bother you. Tom, you did more for Michelle than anyone else ever would have. You’re a good man, Tom. Everybody knows it. I know it. You’re a good man.”
I kissed Miranda. No one was more surprised than I.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what I’m thinking.”
“Oh, shut up,” Miranda said, and kissed me back.
After a couple of minutes of this, Joshua whined, which I think is doggie equivalent of clearing one’s throat to remind others you are there.
“Spectator,” I said.
“He’s a dog,” Miranda said “He doesn’t care.”
“You’d be surprised,” I said.
The situation became academic a second later, when there was a knock. Miranda and I disentangled ourselves as Carl came through the door.
“I’ve got Mike and Adams at the podium now,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“I’m severely pissed off, but other than that, I’m fine,” I said.
“Be prepared to be pissed off a little more,” Carl said. “Brad Turnow’s on his way over.”
My brain fuzzed a second before I realized he was talking about the producer of Earth Resurrected. “Oh, Christ, what a pain,” I said.
Miranda looked at me and then at Carl. “What does Brad want?” she asked.
“His money back,” I said.
“His star is in a coma,” Carl said. “He’s going to have to get someone else to play the part. He’ll figure that, since Michelle is laid up, it’s only fair he should get his money back.”
“What a jerk,” Miranda said.
“Do you want any backup?” Carl said, to me. “We could gang up on him.”
“No,” I said. “It’s all right. I can handle him.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Carl said. “Kick his ass a couple of times. He’ll be here at 1:15. That leaves you two about an hour to smooch.”
I think I blushed; Miranda, who is made of sterner stuff, merely smiled. “Mr. Lupo, with all due respect to your position, that’s just none of your damned business,” she said.
“On the contrary,” Carl said, smiling back. “I didn’t get where I am today by not noticing these sorts of things. Come on, Joshua,” he said, motioning to the dog. “Whether it’s my business or not, I know when I’m not wanted.”
“It’s a terrible thing that happened to Michelle,” Brad said, stating the obvious.
“Yes, it is,” I said.
“I mean, my God,” Brad said. “I’d hate for it to happen to me.”
My eyes flicked over to the clock on my phone. For five minutes now, Brad had been finding new and not-so-exciting ways to restate the obvious point that Michelle was in a world of hurt. I was giving him another minute before I worked him over with a golf club.
The question was whether Brad would be missed. Somehow I doubted it. Up until Murdered Earth, Brad was a distinctly lower-rung producer, cranking out cheesy, low-production-value science fiction and adventure epics that would just about break even in the theaters and then eke out a profit in the video store afterlife: the sort of films you make when you’re either on your way up or down the Hollywood food chain, but never when you’re anywhere near the top. Murdered Earth was the exception because for once, Brad managed to get lucky with a star who was breaking into the stratosphere. That was Michelle, of course; the studio estimated that Michelle’s presence in the film added $55 million to the $85 million domestic take. Having seen Murdered Earth, I personally gave Michelle credit for another ten million or so.
But with a hit movie under his belt, Brad was now a mid-rung producer looking to move up the ladder a little more. Earth Resurrected was going to do it for him, or so he thought. Now that Michelle was down and his production suddenly air-braking into oblivion, Brad wanted to do what he could before the whole thing derailed and sent him crashing back down into the ranks of a straight-to-video producer. Which meant getting someone else for the part and trying to recoup on his losses.
If I were in his position, I’d probably try to do something like what he was doing. Of course, I wouldn’t have given Michelle $12 million, either. Be that as it may, I could sympathize with his situation. The problem was, he was about to try to screw my client. Sympathize or not, there’s no way I was going to allow that.
“Look, I’ll tell you why I’m here,” Brad said.
“I’d appreciate that,” I said.
“It’s terrible what’s happened to Michelle,” Brad said again. Below his view, I was groping for the seven-iron. “But it also creates a real problem for Earth Resurrected. Tom, we’re just about ready to roll, and we can’t wait too
much longer. Hell, we’ve already got the special effects crews working on some scenes, and the second unit’s out shooting.”
I sat there silently, waiting for Brad to continue. He wanted me to be openly sympathetic to his plight, which I was not willing to do. After a few seconds of waiting for me to say something, he went on.
“The real problem is Allen Green,” Brad said. “In our contract, we committed to a start date, and if we miss that start date by more than a week, he can walk, with his full paycheck. Pay or Play. That’s twenty million, shot right down the tubes. The start date’s in ten days, Tom. Even if Michelle comes out of her coma today, she’s not going to be ready to go in ten days. You know that.”
Again, I said nothing. Why make it easy?
Finally, Brad said what he came to say. “We have to replace Michelle, Tom. I’m sorry, but we can’t wait.”
“The reason you paid $12 million for her was because you thought she was indispensable,” I said. “I don’t see how that’s changed. She’s a lot more indispensable than Allen Green. She’s the only person who’ll have been in both films.”
“She was indispensable,” Brad said. “Don’t get me wrong, Tom, I want her to be in the film. But she’s in a coma! And everybody knows it.”
The subtext here: since everyone knows Michelle’s in a coma, no one will actually expect her to be in the sequel anymore. It can be used as an excuse to replace her without anyone complaining. It’s a fair enough assessment, although it left unanswered the question of who would go see the sequel, good excuse or not, if the reason that over two-thirds of the audience went to see the original wasn’t there anymore.
“If you’re going to replace her, you must have someone lined up already, Brad,” I said.