Dirty Blonde

“What happened at that meeting?”

“Mr. Simone came to Philly to meet with me and a friend from the Homicide Division, Detective Frank Russo. Russo was the role model for the main character in my show, the South Philly guy. On the first day, we met at Liberties in Northern Liberties. I picked the place because real detectives hang there.”

The jurors’ eyes had lit up with recognition. The restaurant in Attorneys@Law was also called Liberties, and most of them had seen the show. It was impossible to find anyone in America who hadn’t, despite Hartford’s best efforts. The defense lawyer had used his three preemptory strikes to eliminate as many viewers as possible, with the help of his redheaded jury consultant. Cate never used a consultant. Picking a jury was Trial Lawyer 101.

“Now, what took place at Liberties?”

“Detective Russo and I told Mr. Simone about our characters and storylines. Also, I gave him some info on computers.” Marz’s gaze slid sideways to Simone. “Because he doesn’t know anything about them.”

“Did Mr. Simone or Ms. Gilbert take notes while you were talking?”

“No.”

“Did you think that was strange?”

“I didn’t then but now I think he didn’t want a record of-”

“Objection! That’s speculation again, Your Honor. Move that the irrelevant evidence be stricken.” Hartford rose, but Cate waved him into his seat.

“Granted.” Cate turned to Marz, on the stand. “Please refrain from editorializing.”

Temin continued, “And what happened after lunch at Liberties?”

“Detective Russo and I took Mr. Simone and Ms. Gilbert to the Roundhouse, the police administration building, and we told him how things really work in Homicide. We showed him some details about the squad room, like how the detectives prop the door open with an old trash can and they never notice that the trash can stinks, only visitors do.” Marz turned again to the jury. “The trash can matters, because it tells you about the characters. How they get so used to bad stuff, like the ugliness they see every day on the job.”

Several of the jurors nodded soberly and one cast a cold eye at defense table. If the jury got the case now, they’d vote for Marz and his symbolic trash can.

“And what did you do the second day?”

“Detective Russo and I drove Mr. Simone and Ms. Gilbert around the neighborhoods where the stories took place. It’s called ‘scouting locations.’”

Temin turned a page on his legal pad. “Finally, we come to your critical meeting with Mr. Simone, on November 9, also at Le Bec Fin. Who was present at the meeting?”

“Me and Mr. Simone.”

“And what took place at this lunch meeting?”

“Mr. Simone said we were celebrating. He ordered champagne, two bottles, even though I’m not a big drinker.” Marz shot a resentful glance at defense table. “Anyway I told him I had the treatment ready ahead of schedule and I gave it to him.”

“Please explain to the jury what a treatment is.”

“A treatment is a detailed outline of who the characters are and what the storylines would be. I had told Mr. Simone I’d get the treatment done by August, but I couldn’t do it and my job at the DA’s office, so I quit my job.”

“Your Honor, may I approach?” Temin asked, and Cate nodded. He took from counsel table three thick black binders labeled HARD DRIVE and gave one to Hartford, one to the court clerk, and walked to the witness stand, handing the third to Marz. “Mr. Marz, is this the treatment that you wrote and gave to Mr. Simone?”

“Yes,” Marz answered, examining the notebook, which was admitted into evidence. Temin turned again to his witness.

“Did Mr. Simone take notes at the luncheon?”

“No.”

Temin let the implication sink in. “And then what happened?”

“Then Mr. Simone said-”

“Objection, hearsay,” Hartford called out, his shiny Mont Blanc poised in midair, and Temin stiffened.

“It’s not hearsay, Your Honor.”

“Overruled.” Cate turned to Marz. “Please. Go ahead.”

“He said he was going to get the show ready to be produced and when he got it together, he’d call me. He was very excited, and we made a deal.”

“Objection to the characterization, Your Honor!” Hartford called out louder, rising. “There was no deal in this matter!”

“Yes, there was!” Temin matched him decibel for decibel, and Cate raised her hand, like a stop sign.

“Gentlemen, enough. The objection is overruled. Mr. Hartford, the plaintiff can give his side of the story in his testimony, and your client can give his side. It has a nice symmetry, yes?” Cate gestured at Temin. “Proceed.”

“Mr. Marz, what was the deal between you and Mr. Simone?”

“The deal was that he would produce my idea as a TV series, and he said, ‘If I make money, you’ll make money.’”

“He said those words?” Temin asked, and back at defense table, Hartford shook his head in mute frustration. Simone remained stoic.

Marz answered, “Verbatim.”

“Is it possible that you misheard him? You testified that you had been drinking champagne. Maybe he said, ‘Pass the salt?’”

“No, I heard him perfectly. Plus he already had the salt.”

The jury laughed, and so did the gallery. Temin was trying to take the sting out of the cross-examination to come, but Cate didn’t think it would do any good. She disguised her concern, resting her chin on her fist.

“Mr. Marz, seriously, how can you be so sure?”

“Because I had been wondering about when we were going to discuss money. My wife kept wanting me to ask him, but it was never the right time.” Marz reddened, and his wife looked down. “So when he said that, I knew we had a real deal.”

“Did you and Mr. Simone put this deal into writing?”

“We didn’t need to, at least I didn’t think we needed to.” Marz scowled. “We’re friends, were friends. He was my senior counselor. I trusted him to take care of me.” Marz pursed his lips, and his disillusionment hung in the air between him and the jurors.

On the bench, Cate was about to burst, but instead wrote on her pad, DIDN’T LAW SCHOOL CURE YOU OF TRUSTING OTHERS?

Temin said, “Mr. Marz, some jurors might not understand that you, as a lawyer, would go so far without a written contract. What would you say to that?”

“I’d say they were right, but lawyers are people, too.” Marz turned again to the jury. “I admit, I got carried away with the whole Hollywood thing. He has a jet. A limo. He knows all these famous people. I felt cool for the first time in my life. I may have been naïve, but that doesn’t change the fact that Art Simone stole my show.”

“No further questions,” Temin said, but Hartford was already on his feet.

“I have cross-examination, Your Honor.”

Cate nodded, and Hartford strode to the lectern vacated by Temin. He began in a clipped tone, “Mr. Marz, just a few quick questions about this alleged deal. You admit it was never put in writing?”

“It was an oral agreement. Oral agreements are made every day. It’s called an ‘if-come’ deal, standard in California.”

Cate picked up her pen. PLEASE, GOD, HELP THIS BOY. CAN’T YOU SEE HIS YARMULKE?

Hartford bore down. “Mr. Marz, I repeat, this deal wasn’t written, was it? Yes or no.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Now, you and Mr. Simone didn’t discuss any specific terms of this deal, did you?”

“As I testified, he said, ‘If I make money, you’ll make money.’”

“Perhaps you misunderstood me.” Hartford squared his padded shoulders. “I meant, you and Mr. Simone did not discuss a specific price for your idea, did you?”

“I gave him the treatment for Hard Drive, too,” Marz added.

“I’ll amend my question. You and Mr. Simone didn’t discuss a specific price for your idea and your treatment, did you?”

“No.”

“You didn’t discuss when, where, or how any payment would be made, did you?”

“No.”

“You didn’t discuss who would pay you, whether it would be Mr. Simone or his production company, did you?”