The Smoking Gun Read online

  Also by Doug Richardson

  Dark Horse

  True Believers

  The Safety Expert

  Blood Money

  I have tried to recreate events, locales and conversations from my memories of them. In order to maintain their anonymity in some instances I have changed the names of individuals and places, I may have changed some identifying characteristics and details such as physical properties, occupations and places of residence.

  Copyright © 2014 by Doug Richardson

  Cover design by

  Illustrations by Joey Serricchio

  More information at http://www.dougrichardson.com

  ISBN:

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address

  Richardson, Doug, 1959-

  The Smoking Gun / Doug Richardson.

  Foreword

  Doug Richardson is a gifted story teller. Being a screen writer myself, many people approach me with stories, and I hate to say I find most neither original nor compelling. Doug never fails to tell a good story. Ever. Having coffee or a meal with Doug is always a treat because I know I'm going to hear a story or three with fabulous characters and great plot twists. The down side is I'm going to get jealous that those stories aren't mine. The stories Doug tells are so good you want to entertain your friends with them at dinner parties, so good you want to steal them. If you read on, you'll see that I'm not the only person in Hollywood with the latter impulse.

  Doug's blogs read like his scripts and books. They take you on rides to unexpected places, you learn from them, and you want to share them. Doug's blog has the feel of authenticity because Doug has lived it. He's been in the trenches as a Hollywood screenwriter and as a novelist, and he knows the world he's writing about. Sometimes the stories Doug has lived have as many twists as the stories he tells.

  Years ago Doug and I had coffee and he told me an amazing story about a guy who goes to see a high powered lawyer because he's murdered his wife. I won't reveal the great twist Doug had going right from the get-go, but it was awesome. Jaw dropping. I was green with writer envy and certain it was a story he was going to sell for a ton of money. Turned out I was both wrong and right.

  Doug's agent hooked Doug up with a producer, together they made the studio rounds, pitched the story and no one bought it. It was one of those many cycles in Hollywood when pitches weren't selling so Doug soldiered on, but I was stunned. This was just too great an idea not to sell. A few months later I read a blurb in one of the trades that a Seven Figure writer had just sold a pitch for—seven figures—about a guy who goes to see a lawyer because he's murdered his wife. There was little other detail, but something bothered me: the producer on the project was—you guessed it—Doug's producer.

  I called Doug. Doug called the producer. What happened after that is covered in fascinating detail in Doug's book The Smoking Gun, so if you want to know what happened, go there and read the blog. That story (and every other one in the book) is true. I know. I was there.

  Open any one of Doug's blogs and get ready to be informed and entertained by one of Hollywood's best trench soldiers and storytellers.

  Tom Schulman

  Los Angeles

  February 2014

  Introduction

  Strangely enough, this book started with another. To be precise, it was my third novel, The Safety Expert which I was about to publish when a number of forward thinkers in my life strongly recommended I create a social media presence for myself and, while I was at it, a weekly blog. Blog, I asked? Am I not busy enough with my film and television projects I’m trying to roll up hills? And excuse me but didn’t I just finish a novel?

  One of these geniuses—and for the sake of this pre-cursor, let’s call him Mr. Smarty Pants…

  …Aw, the hell with it. There are plenty of other pseudonyms (along with plenty of real names) hence in the true Hollywood trench tales I’ve rendered herein. So let’s call Mr. Smarty Pants by his actual name, Anthony Rodriguez. For as long as I’ve known him he’s been on the cutting edge of technology, has built himself a top drawer social media management firm, is the only son of successful Cuban immigrants turned hair product entrepreneurs. All that and he attracts more attention from nuclear hot women than most movie stars. Okay. So maybe those aren’t necessarily qualifications for an expert on the subject. But understand this. I work in showbiz, a land where no pedigree is required and every parking valet and next door neighbor has a strong opinion on if my movies did or didn’t suck to go along with that screenplay he or she wants to slip under my bathroom stall.

  “Social media is the future of publicity,” explained Anthony, a man with the dreamy eyes under a perfect pair of black caterpillar eyebrows. “And a weekly blog drives traffic to both your site and whatever social media your hooked into.”

  “But what the hell do I write about?” I asked.

  “Up to you,” said Anthony. “Whatever the hell you want. Just make sure you do it every week”

  Every week? Really?

  I thought long and hard about the prospect, consulting my wife and partner, the lovely War Department, to a nauseating degree.

  “Just try it,” she encouraged. “See how you like it.”

  “But what do I write about?” I asked again and again. “What do I have to say that’s interesting?”

  “You write movies and novels. You can surely come up with something to write in a weekly blog.”

  She was oh so correct. Only my dilemma quickly evolved from what should I write to how much precious writing time can I carve out for this… blog thing?

  You see, most of my writing… well, all of my writing up to this world-tilting point had been fiction. A life dedicated to, in not-so-elegant terms, making stuff up. And for me, that required significant amount of imagining, let alone the task of actually striking the keys of my laptop which form those ideas into some kind of wordy coherence.

  As it became plain to me that I simply hadn’t the hours to spare if I were to invent a weekly blog, I did however quickly discover that I possessed pretty damned vivid memory of my decades navigating through the blood and mud of a screenwriting career.

  Why not share those tales? They’d have the veracity of my having lived them. Illuminating to those who either yearned or were merely curious to know what really goes on beyond the candy store counter. And better yet, they could and would be as maddeningly entertaining to read as they were to live through. After all, these are the same stories most of us showbiz vets trade over

  Starbucks, lunch at Mr. Chow’s, or in my usual case, a margarita on the rocks and a basket of piping hot chips at Casa Vega.

  I wouldn’t need to find writing time for invention. Only recollection. Thus the blog was born. And back then I hadn’t a glimmer it would cause any kind of stir for merely telling it the way it is. Let alone lead to a collection such as this book I’ve titled after one of my most popular posts, The Smoking Gun.

  What began as a chore and a social media experiment has become a favorite and cherished weekly sortie into both past and present. It’s not so much about revisiting some crazy days gone by as it is sharing it with my thousands of dedicated readers who reside both outside and inside this continually confounding business called entertainment.

  Speaking of entertainment. What you’re about to read is supposed to be just that. Entertaining. Though some have criticized to my posts as cautionary tales meant to scare away showbiz wannabes, I’d rather they serve as both humorous and/or gut-churning documents to some of the realities of surviving and succeeding as a working screenwriter in the Hollywood trenches.

  Alright, then. Enoug
h with the qualifiers. Let’s get on with the show.

  The Smoking Gun

  I’ve written about theft before. Both stories and ideas nicked by scumbag producers without consequence. What follows is an epic tale. All true. With multiple endings that, to this day, still leave me and others gob-smacked.

  This sordid trip down memory lane begins like most in LalaLand. With a meeting. The sit-down was a “general.” That’s when an agent or manager puts a writer client and a producer together. There’s no particular agenda, only a hope that some kind of creative marriage will sprout and grow into a movie or tv show of some kind.

  At the time, the producer in question—let’s call him Mr. Jellyfish—was working for a Brand Name talent management company with a film and television development wing. We met, chatted over who knows what, then Mr. Jellyfish told me of an old French comedy he had the rights to. Based on the story he told, I wasn’t interested in the adaptation. But something in the conversation stirred me to think aloud of an interesting protagonist. Next came the antagonist. Then a the structure of a thriller with three simple acts. Yes. Sometimes it happens that fast. Like manna from God.

  Mr. Jellyfish didn’t just love my story, he was stoked to go out and sell it. We shook hands and said our goodbyes. I got my parking validated, climbed into my car and phoned my agent.

  “How’d it go?” my agent asked.

  “Good, I suppose. And not so good,” I said.

  “Let’s start with the good.”

  “The good is that I came up with a legal thriller. Great characters. Super castable.”

  “And the bad?”

  “This producer guy (Mr. Jellyfish). He gives me the heebie jeebies. Somethin’ really sleezy about the dude.”

  “Yeah. Know what you mean,” agreed my agent. “But if you came up with the story during the meeting, he’s attached. No getting around it.”

  That much I knew. No matter that Mr. Jellyfish had less than zero input into the story I’d spun in his office, industry protocol pretty much cemented him as a producer. Whether I liked it or not, we were stuck with each other.

  “How’s this?” I suggested. “What if we pitch this to some mini-studio with strong producers?”

  “That might work,” said my agent.

  At the time, there were a number of big producers around with piles of development and co-production financing, some of them with Grade A credentials. We called them mini-studios.

  With my agent coordinating the pitches, I attended one more “rehearsal” sit-down with Mr. Jellyfish. This is when I was introduced to his friend, Mr. Euro, a fellow producer who I was told owned the rights to that old French comedy.

  “I’m confused,” I said politely. “I’m not adapting the French film. I’m here to rehearse the pitch for the legal thriller we talked about.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Mr. Jellyfish. “But since I brought you in to talk about the one thing, I think it’s only fair to kiss (Mr. Euro) in as a producer on our other thing.”

  Whatever, I thought. Mr. Euro didn’t offer much in the room. And as long as I sold the pitch to one of our targeted mini-studios, I’d feel more confident about the producing package.

  I scored at the very first mini-studio I pitched. They bought my legal thriller in the room. The Mini-Studio Mogul shook my hand and promised to get things closed

  in matter of days. And, true to his word, my deal closed practically overnight. I understood, though, because Mr. Jellyfish worked for those Brand Name talent managers, that the producing agreement might take a little bit longer.

  cut to: Six weeks later. I get a phone call from Mr. Mini-Studio Mogul.

  “Sorry the deal’s taking so long,” he began. “Lotta producers to wrangle. But that’s not my biggest problem.”

  “So what is your big problem?” I asked.

  “The rights,” he said. “Simple question. Who owns the story you pitched me?”

  “Me, myself, and I,” I answered. Yes, it was a glib as all get out. But one hundred percent correct.

  “That’s what I thought,” said Mr. Mini-Studio Mogul. “Then why the fuck am I in negotiation for the rights to some stupid French comedy that I’ve never heard of?”

  Lordy. Not that again. I tried not to imagine the motives for Mr. Jellyfish’s insistence on including the French film into the deal. But something about the situation seemed pretty damned nefarious.

  “I have no clue why,” I answered, my blood pressure elevating like mercury.

  I explained the origins of my story to Mr. Mini-Studio Mogul, including my surprise introduction to Mr. Euro. And that was when I was informed Mr. Euro was the rights holder to the French comedy that I was not adapting and where Mr. Jellyfish had explained his involvement as a matter of producers scratching each others back.

  “Have you ever tried to buy the rights to a French film?” asked Mr. Mini-Studio Mogul. “It’s a nightmare. And for the record, neither of those clowns you came with own the rights to anything!”

  Another lie. I was already flipping through my notes in search of Mr. Jellyfish’s phone number when Mr. Mini-Studio Mogul summed up:

  “So lemme make sure I’ve got this right. You are the sole owner of the story you pitched me. And it’s not based on some stupid old French comedy.”

  “I own it. Nobody else. And those clowns you spoke of are only attached because I made the mistake of generating the story during a general meeting.”

  “Thanks. Got it. Lemme see if I can sort this out.”

  The mogul hung up. Meanwhile, I dialed Mr. Jellyfish.

  “Why in Christ are you trying to sell my thriller as an adaptation to that stupid French comedy?” I shouted. “We pitched a legal thriller that has nothing whatsoever to do with some foreign comedy I’ve never even seen.”

  “I know that,” said Mr. Jellyfish. “It’s just that Mr. Euro and I—”

  “You assured me that Mr. Euro was just along for the ride. What the hell are you doing?”

  “Know what? You’re right. I’m sorry. I fucked this up. Lemme fix it and call you back.”

  Hours later, my agent called to tell me Mr. Mini-Studio Mogul was so incensed at Mr. Jellyfish and Mr. Euro and their shady shenanigans that he’d pulled the plug on the deal.

  I cursed myself for not trusting my initial instincts to steer clear Mr. Jellyfish. I should’ve kept my writer’s trap firmly shut during the meeting and developed the story inside the safety of my own skull.

  “I’m out too,” I told my agent. “I never wanna talk to that prick again.”

  “You realize what you’re doing?” he said.

  I did, indeed. My pitch couldn’t go forward without Mr. Jellyfish. Nor could Mr. Jellyfish go forth and sell it without me.

  My legal thriller was dead.

  What followed were the stages of grief. One of which was denial. I sought advice from both my attorney and a mentor friend. Both assured me that, even though I had the right to sell my story without Mr. Jellyfish, those Brand Name Managers for whom he worked were known to be litigious you know whats. So unless I wanted to battle things out in court…

  Nearly a year passed. Then came word that Mr. Jellyfish had received his walking papers from those Brand Name Managers. He was on the street and looking for a new job. Couldn’t happen to a more deserving guy, I reckoned.

  Once again, I revisited my legal thriller. My options in Hollywood were nil so I pitched it as a novel to both my book agent and my publisher. They loved it, but were concerned about my entering such a crowded literary space. We all agreed to marinate on the prospect and bid each other a happy holiday.

  It was just after New Year’s when I received a call from a fellow writer pal, congratulating me on having sold my legal thriller to a cash-rich independent studio.

  “Haven’t sold anything,” I replied.

  “Really?” said my friend. “Coulda sworn I saw the trade announcement. One-liner sounded something like your story. Figured you’d sold it to Mr. Jellyfish fo
r a bunch of dough.”

  My blood was rising. I’d been on vacation for two weeks and way out of the loop. Still, I checked the back issues of Variety and landed on a front-page announcement about a huge spec sale by someone we’ll call Mr. Celebrity Screenwriter. The article told the tale of a

  three-and-a-half page treatment (along with the celebrity screenwriter’s services to pen the script) that he’d sold for nearly four million dollars.

  That, ladies and gentlemen, is the numeral four followed by six zeroes before the decimal point.

  And sure enough. There it was in ink on paper. A legal thriller with a one-line description that appeared scarily close to my legal thriller. And attached as producers, none other than Mr. Jellyfish and Mr. Euro.

  Couldn’t be mine, I reasoned. It was too pagan. Too obvious and public. The writer of the treatment was the most famous screenwriter on the planet. The odds seemed astronomical that the spec treatment sold for record millions was anything related to my wga registered tale.

  So I cautiously did what most self-respecting screenwriters would do. I phoned my lawyer.

  “Listen,” said my lawyer. “Let’s not pull out the guns yet. You dig up your (wga) registration and I’ll put in a call to the studio and inform them that they might have a problem.”

  While my attorney attempted to throw a temporary chop-block on the dizzying spec sale, I dove into my funky filing system in search of my proof of copyright.

  Then the phone rang. It was Mr. Jellyfish. And he sounded as if he’d just dropped a toaster in the bathtub.

  “I’m gonna sue you!” he screamed at me. “You ever hear of a thing called tortuous interference? That’s when somebody purposefully fucks with somebody else’s contractual dealings.”

  “I’m not looking to mess up anything,” I said.

  “I’m gonna sue you until you’re nothing!” he continued.

  “Calm down,” I said. “I don’t want a legal hassle. I just wanna make sure that it wasn’t my story you and (Mr. Celebrity Screenwriter) sold for four mil.”