The Smoking Gun Read online

  “It wasn’t. Okay? End of argument.”

  “All I gotta see is the treatment. If it’s not close to my registered material I’ll be totally happy to stay outta your business.”

  “That’s right. My business!” he screamed. “And just so you know, all I did was show (Mr. Celebrity Screenwriter) the same French film I showed you. Whatever he came up with was on his own.”

  “You never showed me the film,” I corrected. “You gave me a thumbnail sketch of a comedy. I rejected adapting it. What I built was a whole new story that had nothing to do with the stupid French movie. So I’d find it hard to believe that some other screenwriter working with you could magically come up with the same story I invented then legally registered with the Guild.”

  “You got documents? Well so do I. Me and (Mr. Euro) wrote up our own story.”

  “Did you register it?” I asked.

  “No. But the date on it predates when you and I ever met.”

  “Listen,” I said. “All I need to see is the treatment, okay? Send me what (Mr. Celebrity Screenwriter) sold to the studio. I’ll read it and we’ll go from there.”

  “I’ll do you one better,” said Mr. Jellyfish. “I send you the whole fuckin’ file.”

  “Fine. Great.”

  Mr. Jellyfish hung up and, while I was relaying the details of the conversation to both my attorney and agent, my fax machine began to chug, spitting out pages of documents.

  I assembled the pile of paper. Shuffled through a variety of memos concerning Mr. Euro and that old French comedy. There was also a strange, poorly sketched outline “written” by Mr. Jellyfish and Mr. Euro, supposedly based

  on the aforementioned film. The one-page doc reeked of illicitness and was conveniently predated before my ever having met the producing duo. My attorney assured me it would hold no legal water.

  Finally, I landed on Mr. Celebrity Screenwriter’s golden treatment. Just as advertised, it was three-and-a-half pages long. Sadly, I didn’t have to read very far. The very first paragraph was nearly identical to my verbal pitch, even using the exact names of the movie stars I’d referenced for the thriller’s protagonist and antagonist. The rest of the treatment followed my story closely, veering away a bit in the second act, but completely aping my work in the finish.

  My stomach twisted. This was no small infraction I’d stumbled on. And right in front of me was a document that, stem to stern, had completely ripped off my legally copyrighted property. There would be no pissing this problem away or writing the event off as showbiz collateral. This was going to be a dogfight. That’s because despite the sleazy actions of the two producers, at the center of the action was a top-of-the-list celebrity screenwriter and his very public—not to mention record—multi-million dollar sale of a three-and-a-half page treatment. He would surely defend himself and truly test the legal boundaries of the wga copyright.

  Things were about to get bloody.

  I was prepping to redial my lawyer when another document from the fax-pile caught my eye. It was typewritten on two pages of those Brand Name Managers’ letterhead.

  The title of the document was called “doug’s pitch.” And below was written, “transcribed from audio recording.”

  Jesus, I thought. They’d actually recorded me pitching my legal thriller?

  That’s right sport fans. Without my knowledge, Mr. Jellyfish had secretly taped me pitching my own story and somewhere, somehow, some no-name assistant had been assigned the dirty task of transcribing the recording and stuffing it into a file.

  Even more shameful was how close the transcription of my verbal pitch tracked with the multi-million-dollar three-point-five-page golden treatment penned by Mr. Celebrity Screenwriter.

  Hell, I thought. I don’t even need to dig out my WGA registered legal thriller. It was all here in front of me—on letterhead—in my voice.

  The smoking gun.

  I dialed both my attorney and agent. Passed on my sterling discovery. My lawyer, practically giddy at the news, asked me to fax him the evidence. My other line rang. I picked it up. Guess who?

  “Did you get it?” barked Mr. Jellyfish, still hot but reduced to a low boil.

  “I did,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “And?”

  “And I read Mr. Celebrity Screenwriter’s treatment. I gotta be frank. It’s my story. You guys have a problem.”

  “But you also received the document I wrote with (Mr. Euro.) It predates our meeting. Proof it’s not your story.”

  “C’mon. We both know you wrote it after the fact and just typed a different date on it—”

  “You can’t prove it didn’t predate you!” He was back to screaming again.

  “It’s not a legal document,” I argued. “My registered material—”

  “Your registered stuff doesn’t mean shit! I going to argue that you stole from me! I’m gonna sue you and when I’m done you’re going to have no fuckin’ career—”

  “May I read to you from another document you faxed me? It’s on letterhead and titled ‘Doug’s Pitch… transcribed from audio recording.’”

  The phone line went dead silent. Mr. Jellyfish, a man known for his gift of gab, was at an immediate loss for dialogue. So he did what most clowns do when the laughs stop. He hung up and exited stage right.

  What followed was a carpet-bombing of phone calls. Hard-nosed negotiating. A studio, their lawyers, and Mr. Celebrity Screenwriter’s super agent all wondering why the hell I was so hellbent on a precept called principle.

  “(Mr. Celebrity Screenwriter) had no clue whatsoever that it was somebody else’s story,” argued the super agent. “He was of the understanding that it was (Mr. Jellyfish’s) story to give away.”

  “For almost four million dollars?” I asked. “Please.”

  “Why you gotta be an asshole about this?” shouted the super agent. “Don’t you know there’s a negotiated deal already in place? And it’s based entirely on my client’s cache. Not your stupid-assed story.”

  “I’d watch who you’re calling an asshole,” I cautioned. “That’s my intellectual property that your client was caught selling.”

  “And you and I know my client didn’t steal it! Those dirtbag producers did!”

  In the end, I had to agree. Hollywood’s a pretty small town. The only black mark on Mr. Celebrity Screenwriter was his arrogant rep. There was nothing on his rap sheet that led me to believe he was a story thief.

  “There’s a first time for everybody,” said my lawyer. “Sure you want to let him slide on the thievery deal?”

  Once again, I tried to be pragmatic. I had the power to completely torpedo the high profile deal and sully the rep of a big time scribe. But an act that rash would gain

  me nothing and, when the dust finally settled, nobody in town would be brave enough to touch me or my legal thriller for fear of a lawsuit or reprisal from Mr. Celebrity Screenwriter and his super agent.

  Or I could compromise. Negotiate some kind of bargain.

  But could anything I ever worked out of such a mess end up in the same zip code as fair? I found myself hanging on the horns of one helluva dilemma. Blow it all up? Or deal?

  My decision was to deal.

  Now, for those of you who view this as a weak move, you may want to put a temporary cork in your judgment. Read on and remember that if I used my position to dynamite the deal, it would’ve meant nobody would ever be able to move forward with my story—including me. That and there were some behind the scenes stakeholders who might see my behavior as intractable. Not quite the rep I was looking to curry in small town with ears the size of Dumbo’s.

  “What do you think we should ask for?” I queried my lawyer.

  “For starters, an immediate cash payment. Then whatever you think is fair.”

  The nearly four million Mr. Celebrity Screenwriter would be paid included his incredibly expensive writing services, well-earned from having penned a successive string of boffo movies. And, once again, I didn’t consider
him a thief as much as an egocentric opportunist who was accustomed to producers visiting him on bent knee, offering up their first born in order to secure his imprimatur.

  “What I want,” I began, “is everything (Mr. Jellyfish) and (Mr. Euro) will ever make on the movie.”

  “As in money?” asked my lawyer.

  “Every penny. They’re the thieves. They shouldn’t make a cent on the movie. Not a dime.”

  “But they still get to produce the movie, right?” he asked. “Credit and all.”

  Produce? Credit? If I could’ve denied the bastards the legal right to procreate I might’ve considered that.

  “I suppose I can’t deny them credit.” I said. “I just believe they should never be able to profit from the movie.”

  “Agreed,” he said. “You know (Mr. Jellyfish) is going to blow a gasket.”

  “Let him.” I said. “Those are my terms.”

  Another round of calls began, melting the phone lines with incendiary words and assignations about my character. But I held my ground. Gave my lawyer permission to hit the self-destruct button at any moment he felt was appropriate. Then sometime around 7:00p.m. I recall a messenger arriving at my house with a cashier’s check. I won’t divulge the precise amount. Let’s just say it was enough for a down payment on a waterfront villa on Lake Kiss My Ass.

  As for my demand to receive all monies the producing duo would ever earn on the movie, they threw the requisite snit fit. Claimed I was the actual thief upon realizing their distinct lack of leverage.

  Meanwhile, I decided that I also wanted a producing credit on the picture. The lowliest. Associate Producer. On screen and in the credit block of all prints and advertisements.

  For some reason, the Associate Producer request flipped some kind of hellfire switch in the celebrity screenwriter’s super agent. He phoned me, shouted into the phone, charging me with extortion.

  “Extortion?” I asked. “Who was the one who got ripped off?”

  “It’s already been established that my client didn’t know the story was yours,” argued the super agent.

  “And what does that have to do with anything?”

  “My client is still going to write a script. You will be producing nothing. Yet you still want credit?”

  Like “producing nothing” had ever stopped anybody in Hollywood from seeking a producing credit; it is the most abused title in cinematic history. Much later—and I’m talking years down the road—when that super agent turned into a movie producer, he received a “produced by” credit on films where he never stepped on a set, never read the script, nor secured a lick of financing. And years after, when the chance arrived for me to tweak him for his lousy argument, his pithy response was “Fuck you.”

  “Here’s why I want a producer credit,” I told the super agent. “Because I invented the legal thriller which your client is getting paid four million to write. Why do I want the Associate Producer credit? Because nobody else will want it and that way I won’t have to share. And why do I want that credit on all prints and ads? Because one day, my children will want to know why my name is on the movie. And that’ll give me the opportunity to tell them a real life morality tale of thievery, bullying, and unchecked arrogance.”

  Yeah. It was a mouthful. I still recall that I’d spent the entire phone conversation pacing around our upstairs nursery, surrounded by pastels and tapestries depicting little puffy clouds.

  Sometime the next day, I heard the entire deal was in peril. Not because of my demands, but because the cash-rich indie studio who’d made the high profile agreement had unknowingly found themselves trying to purchase

  the rights to that stupid French comedy on which the story was never based.

  Yes. Again.

  Somehow, the lines of communication got untangled and the deal points were settled.

  As for my demands, everybody pretty much caved and I received what was right. My deal closed. Legal papers were generated for me to sign away the rights to my legal thriller… and I indeed signed.

  You would think that would be the end of the tale. I can imagine blog fans racking their brain for recent legal thrillers, wondering which movie I’m writing about. But we’re not there yet.

  In the years that followed, I’ve miraculously never had the unpleasant experience of bumping into either Mr. Jellyfish or Mr. Euro. Though my attorney hasn’t been so lucky. At the few events where they’ve had social encounters, my lawyer has offered his hand in a gesture of détente. Mr. Jellyfish has yet to reciprocate.

  Meanwhile, remember when I said that Hollywood is a small town? One day I’m having a getting-to-know-you lunch with a young development exec who’d been overseeing a couple of my projects. During the meal I decided to amuse him with the smoking gun story. He sat across from me, gob-smacked at nearly every turn. Sure, I thought. It’s a helluva tale. But something in his reaction piqued my curiosity.

  “It’s a great story. But not that great a story,” I told him, sensing he was overreacting.

  “No,” said the sharp young exec. “That’s not it at all. You see, before I worked at my current job, I worked for (Mr. Jellyfish).”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Totally serious,” he said. “And I think I’m the dude who faxed you the file.”

  “The file with the smoking gun?”

  “Uh huh.”

  I nearly fell out of my chair as he recounted his side of things. His crazy boss, storming around his condo screaming, “Fax him the fucking file!”

  “The whole file?” the former assistant had asked.

  “The fucking file!” screamed Mr. Jellyfish. “I said fax it now!”

  As I write this, I’m still laughing. As I said earlier, how often does one have a chance to hold an actual smoking gun? Let alone get to meet the unlucky minion who accidentally faxed it to you.

  That young development exec has since left the business for saner pastures. But to this very day, we remain the closest of friends.

  Fast forward a few years. I’d moved on. But for the story of my cinematic victimization and vindication, I’d heard not a syllable about a forthcoming movie. Then came a call from my new agent.

  “Hey,” he said to me. “There’s this project over at (the independent studio). Legal thriller by (Mr. Celebrity Screenwriter). They say he botched it so bad they wanna know if you’d like to take a whack at it.”

  “You’re joking,” I said. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously what?” he said. “They wanna talk to you about doing a rewrite. Should I send the script over for you to read?”

  “Ha ha ha,” I said, thinking I was getting punked. “Really. Stop messing with me.”

  “I’m not messing,” he said. “Why would I mess about a writing gig? That’s how I make my money.”

  “You seriously don’t know?”

  “I seriously don’t know.”

  “I’ve never told you?”

  “Told me what?” he said, totally confused by my tack. My relationship with this agent was still pretty fresh. I hadn’t yet shared the sordid tale with him.

  “So look,” he said. “Are you interested in a meeting or not?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “I’m very interested in meeting. More than you could ever imagine.”

  The moment the celebrity screenwriter’s screenplay arrived at my front door, I tore open the envelope and sat down to pore over what nearly four million dollars had wrought in printer paper and ink. I’d read a few high-dollar screenplays. None had been perfect in my view, but most were pretty darn well crafted. Having also read a number of rewrites of my own work, I expected a relatively similar feel. My characters. My structure. Someone else’s voice, crayoned scenery, and ham-fisted word-play.

  What I encountered was none of the above.

  Mr. Celebrity Screenwriter’s script contained so little of my thriller story that I wondered what all the hubbub had been about in the first place. I’d read his golden treatment. And it was a nearly paragr
aph for paragraph ape of my stolen pitch. Why the hell had he departed so completely from the characters, plot and construct?

  Then it hit me. In those earlier negotiations for me to take a giant step back into the shadows, the one thing I couldn’t sign away was story credit. This is because of a simple WGA tenet (and part of the collective bargaining agreement) that forbids studios and producers from enticing writers to take money in exchange for forgoing the basic right for their name to be forever etched on the picture.

  Mr. Celebrity Screenwriter, in his megomaniacal zeal to avoid sharing credit, tossed out most of the stolen story and wrote a radically different movie.

  Talk about your bait and switch.

  My new agent arranged a meeting with the studio. I marked the date in indelible ink and made certain I showed up on time.

  If anything, this was going to be entertaining.

  “Nice seeing you, Doug,” said the studio boss man, shaking my hand like an old friend.

  The studio boss and I had worked together some years earlier on another picture. And I’d enjoyed most of the process until the cigar-chomping immigrant decided he didn’t want to pay me for the final draft, arguing that the reason he’d stiffed me was because the movie star had screwed him over. I suppose he figured screwings were something to be re-gifted. I fought back and eventually won my paycheck. I wondered if there were going to be some residual hard feelings.

  We met over a lacquered conference table tucked in the corner of his massive, art-stuffed office. Along with a pair of de rigueur development execs, we were joined by the boss man’s former business partner, a man of equally foreign origins. Though both men grew up on different sides of the planet, after years of financing massive, worldwide hit pictures they’d come to possess nearly the exact same cartoonish Soup-Nazi-meets-Steve-Buscemi accent.

  “So, Doug,” said the studio boss. “You like the project.”

  “Oh, I like it very much,” I said, grinning widely on the inside.

  “Now, you understand the script you read wasn’t the story I bought,” admitted the studio boss. “Did your agents send you the treatment too?”