Unscripted Page 2

  The Beverly Hills courts were connected to the city’s main administrative buildings, a stucco palace rimmed by palms and emerald lawns on Santa Monica Boulevard. Danny was led down the rear corridor into the holding pen where all prisoners on remand awaited their hour before the judge.

  Fifteen minutes later a heavyset man with an intensely impatient air followed a deputy through the courtroom door. He crossed the concrete foyer and halted in front of the pen. “Daniel Byrd?”

  “Here.” Danny rose from the bench and approached the bars. He had done this twice before, then entered the courtroom and faced the judge with his rotten public defender. Each time he had felt his freedom slip one step further away.

  Not today.

  The man’s first words were enough to assure Danny that this time was different. “My name is Sol Feinnes. As of yesterday, I serve as your principal attorney.”

  “How is this happening?”

  “We don’t have time for that. My associate has used her firm’s considerable clout to shift your court date, and what I need—”

  Another deputy pushed through the swinging doors leading to the courts and said, “Feinnes, you’re up.”

  “Coming.” To Danny he said, “Follow my lead, Byrd. Your future depends on it.”

  2

  JUDGE RICHTER was a small woman in her sixties with hair like a silver-grey helmet. She was soft-spoken and delicately boned, with features of ivory lace. But her gaze was a pale green laser and her words carried the full weight of her position. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you in my courtroom before, Mr. Feinnes.”

  The attorney seated to Danny’s left rose to his feet. Megan Pierce, the lawyer who had visited Danny in jail, was seated to his right.

  Sol cleared his throat and replied, “This is my first opportunity to try a case in Beverly Hills, Your Honor. My practice is based in San Luis Obispo. We focus on the central-coast region.”

  “And yet here you are.”

  “Indeed.” Sol gestured to Danny. “One of my clients requested me to represent Mr. Byrd in order to prevent a miscarriage of justice.”

  She glanced at the prosecutor, a young Latina named Suarez whose acidic words had branded Danny’s public defender. When Suarez remained silent, Judge Richter said, “You have requested this change to the court’s schedule, Mr. Feinnes. I hope you can prove to my satisfaction that this highly irregular move was genuinely necessary.”

  “I hope so too, Your Honor.”

  “Be forewarned, Mr. Feinnes. My calendar is too overcrowded to accept any time-wasting maneuvers.”

  “I will be calling just two witnesses, Your Honor. I am certain they will confirm the need for this hearing.”

  Richter continued to glance at the prosecutor. When Suarez did not offer a response, the judge said, “Very well. Proceed.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. Defense calls Greg Riggs.”

  Megan Pierce must have been ready for Danny’s outburst. She stifled anything he might have said with a quiet hiss.

  Film directors were notorious for being Hollywood’s worst dressed. Greg Riggs certainly lived up to his guild. Today he wore ratty jeans, ancient boat shoes, no socks, and a vintage T-shirt advertising the Grateful Dead’s last European tour. He was deceptively small, a little blond gnome who skirted around the edge of life. All that changed, however, when he was running a film set. Then Greg morphed into an individual of tornadic force, capable of joining a hundred egotistical voices into one cinematic chorus.

  Greg’s voice shook slightly as he was sworn in and stated his name.

  Sol asked, “What is your profession, Mr. Riggs?”

  “I produce and direct feature films.”

  “Give the court a brief overview of your career, please.”

  “I started as assistant director on series television. Nine years ago I directed my first made-for-TV film. I did six for Lifetime and three for Freeform. Three years ago I directed my first feature. It won the audience award at Sundance.”

  “How do you know the defendant, Danny Byrd?”

  “He was line producer on my last two pictures for Lifetime and has worked on all my features.”

  “Explain for the court what the term ‘line producer’ means exactly.”

  “There is no exact. A line producer is the accountant responsible for all expenditures during the shoot. But it goes a lot further than that. Before filming, the line producer sets the film’s budget. Financing depends on him getting those figures right. Once the shoot begins, a good line producer does whatever is required to keep the project on time and on budget. He is also responsible for making sure the film’s investors make their payments on time.”

  “So you’re saying Mr. Byrd is good at his job.”

  Greg looked Danny’s way for the first time since entering the courtroom. “The best. Everybody who’s ever worked with Danny says the same.”

  “Objection.” The prosecuting attorney did not rise from her chair. “Hearsay.”

  “Sustained.” The judge leaned toward the witness box. “Mr. Riggs, you will refrain from offering anything more than a direct response to the attorney’s question.”

  “Sorry, Your Honor.”

  “Proceed, Mr. Feinnes.”

  “Mr. Riggs, how is it that a line producer with such a stellar reputation finds himself brought up on these very serious charges?”

  Greg’s head ducked down far enough for his shoulders to swallow his neck. “It’s all my fault.”

  3

  DANNY’S LIFE, career, and professional standing had all been destroyed by one word.

  Escrow.

  Once a film’s budget and script were approved, investors placed funds in an escrow account. Contracts were negotiated and signed, establishing clear points at which the funds could be withdrawn. During Danny’s early days in the film world, he watched one mid-budget film after another fall apart because the investors did not live up to their promises. As a result, he only agreed to begin production when the entire budget was placed in the escrow account. It was one of the core tenets on which Danny had built his reputation. If Danny Byrd produced your film, the film got done. Period.

  Until the day everything went wrong.

  Sol Feinnes proved very adept at courtroom interrogation. He was a soft-spoken bear in his late fifties, with neatly groomed iron-grey hair and a discreetly expensive navy pinstriped suit. He skillfully led Greg Riggs through a brief overview of the role the escrow account played, then asked, “So what happened with this particular production?”

  “We had a great script,” Greg replied. “Good enough to attract two top-tier stars. We’re certain to score big at Sundance.”

  “Objection,” Suarez said. She sounded almost bored. “Conjecture.”

  “Sustained.” The judge was a Beverly Hills resident. She could smell film hype at a hundred paces. “Defense will hold his witness to the facts relevant to this case.”

  Sol said, “You had a script and you signed your stars, and then what?”

  “I had a four-film deal in place with Italian investors. This was to be our first project. I took the script and budget and our two main stars to them. They gave their approval.”

  “What is their name?”

  “Banco Populare.”

  “They are regular investors in mid-range films, correct?”

  “Right. I mean, yes. They have an office and full-time team on Wilshire.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Our production budget was 5.1 million. We received word from our bank that the first 2.7 was in escrow. Then I got a call from the investors to say there was a delay.”

  “What does that mean, ‘delay’?”

  “At the time, I had no idea. Their guy, he told me it was a temporary glitch. Another week to ten days, we’d be fully funded. He’s Italian, from Florence, and when he wants he can be slick as oiled glass.” Greg ran an uncertain hand across his forehead and up over his unkempt hair. “Now I know the bank was being invest
igated by the European Commission for underperforming loans. Their LA operation was shut down last week.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I met with JR.”

  “You are referring to John Rexford, the defendant’s former partner.”

  “Right. Our two stars were available for twenty-seven days. Not an hour more. A delay of a week and a half meant we lost the chance to shoot. The bank insisted on script and star approval. If we lost the actors, we were back to square one.”

  “So what was Mr. Rexford’s response?”

  Greg swiped his hand up his forehead and across the top of his head. “He said we should hold to our schedule.”

  “Begin production.”

  “Right.”

  “Without the funds actually being in place.”

  “That’s what he said. We met with the investors’ rep, he assured us the rest of the funds were coming. JR said go.”

  “How did the defendant respond to his partner’s suggestion?”

  “We didn’t tell Danny.”

  “You’re saying you did not inform the defendant of your decision.”

  Greg’s one-handed swipe was constant now. The perspiration slicked down the hair on top of his head. “Correct.”

  “Why is that, Mr. Riggs?”

  “JR said if we told him, Danny would have ordered us to stop the shoot.”

  “So you lied to my client, is that what you’re saying?”

  “No, it’s just . . . we didn’t tell him.”

  “One final question. When did the defendant learn of what transpired between you and his former partner?”

  “I don’t know. I guess now.”

  Sol let that bit of news hang in the air, then said, “No further questions.”

  “Your witness, Ms. Suarez.”

  The prosecuting attorney took her time rising to her feet. “The defendant is charged with willfully defrauding half a dozen local companies—everything from camera and lens rentals to catering. No one responsible for supplying these services was paid. Including the payments due in advance of your starting production.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Greg said. “Danny Byrd is the most honest man I know.”

  “Can you offer any evidence to substantiate your claim that he was unaware of his own firm’s financial situation?”

  “JR must have suspected something was wrong and held out on Danny. And us.” Greg’s swipe from his forehead to the nape of his neck accelerated. “Danny’s used the same catering team for four films. Ditto for lights and camera rental. Everybody wants to work with him because he’s always on time with his payments. He plays it totally straight.”

  The judge said softly, “Answer the question.”

  Greg gave no sign he even heard. “We were shooting on location in El Paso. Danny got a call from the catering company’s head office that their weekly check had bounced. Danny phoned JR at their office. The police answered. Danny asked me what was happening.”

  When Greg went silent, Suarez demanded, “How did you respond?”

  “I lied. I told him I had no idea. When Danny couldn’t find JR, he caught the next flight back to LA. I heard he was arrested when he showed up at their office.”

  Suarez tapped the blank page of her notepad. “No further questions.”

  The judge looked at Sol. “Redirect?”

  “Just one further question, Your Honor. Mr. Riggs, what happened to your current project?”

  “I mortgaged our home. We also got a check from this Chinese guy who was interested in investing in Danny’s films. That plus my mortgage meant we finished the shoot. I completed postproduction three days ago.”

  “No further questions.”

  Judge Richter said, “The witness may step down.”

  As Greg passed Danny’s table, he offered, “Man, I’m really, really—”

  “You are dismissed, Mr. Riggs,” the judge snapped. When Greg exited the courtroom, she continued, “I fail to see why it was necessary to request this morning’s hearing, Mr. Feinnes.”

  Sol rose to his feet. “I called Mr. Riggs first, Your Honor, in order to supply testimony so that I might lay a necessary foundation for what my second witness will now reveal. He is the reason for this requested hearing.”

  “Very well. Proceed.”

  Sol responded by returning to his place behind the table.

  Megan Pierce, still seated at Danny’s right, stood and said, “Defense calls Pei-Lun Zhang.”

  Danny Byrd was nothing like what Megan had expected.

  Her research had revealed an intriguing and possibly dangerous individual. The man’s background was bizarre. But her six and a half years in Los Angeles had taught her that the film world drew the strange and the almost broken. Most such people were consumed, bones and all. Only the strongest and most determined survived.

  Danny could have been a model, he was that good-looking. Dark hair falling in natural waves even when brushed. Tall and broad-shouldered with no waist to speak of. All this Megan had known in advance, of course. What astonished her was the man’s nature.

  Given his background, Megan had expected to find a dark and vicious streak. Danny had been born in Phoenix, and his father had abandoned the family when Danny was three. Two years later, his mother had experienced a nervous breakdown, probably induced by drugs. Danny, an only child, had been placed in foster care. Juvie records were sealed, but a pliant official had told Megan that there had been several brushes with the law. That was hardly a surprise. What did not fit into the standard model was how, at fourteen, Danny turned his life around. All by himself. His schoolwork went from barely passing to straight A’s and stayed there. At fifteen he was adopted by his last of seven foster families. He ran track. He wrestled. He was class president. He gained a scholarship to the University of Nevada, graduated summa cum laude, and stayed on to earn an MBA. As soon as he passed his CPA exams, Danny moved to Los Angeles. He worked a series of low-level jobs around filmdom’s periphery, then formed his partnership with John Rexford.

  As Megan waited for her witness to be sworn in, she cast a glance at her client. Danny Byrd was quite possibly the most self-contained individual she had ever met. She sensed the rage lurking behind those blue-black eyes. She had noticed it immediately upon his entry into the jail’s interview chamber. Megan had always appreciated the spice of latent risk in her men. Which went a long way in describing the wreckage of relationships that littered her past. But standing in court before an impatient judge was hardly the moment for such thoughts.

  Her witness, Pei-Lun Zhang, was tall for an Asian, with skin of smooth and polished cedar. Megan knew he was fifty-one because she had asked him. But he could have passed for a man in his early thirties.

  Megan said, “State your profession for the record, please.”

  “Film investor.” For such a cultured and intelligent man, Pei-Lun Zhang butchered the English language with exquisite finesse. He made himself understood by speaking very slowly, isolating each word within its own bubble. “Someday.”

  “You are here in this country to invest in film production, is that correct?”

  “Was. No more. Leave today.” He turned to the judge. “So sorry. English very bad.”

  Judge Richter asked, “Do you understand the attorney’s questions, Mr. Zhang?”

  “Oh, yes. She speak very clear.”

  “Counsel, you may proceed.”

  “You are saying, Mr. Zhang, that your return to China is imminent?” Megan asked.

  “Yes. Tonight fly Shanghai.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Our money not come. Beijing take away permits.”

  “You are saying that you came to Los Angeles representing would-be investors who had initial permits from the Chinese government to extract funds?”

  “All is correct.”

  “Objection,” Suarez said. “Counsel is leading the witness.”

  Richter pondered a moment, then replied, “Given the terse nature of
his responses, I would class Ms. Pierce’s efforts as more in keeping with a translator.” She turned to the witness. “Do you understand the word ‘terse’?”

  “Short.”

  She nodded. “I suspect your language abilities are not as limited as your speech suggests.”

  Wisely, Zhang did not respond.

  “Proceed, counselor,” Richter said. “But try not to place words in the mouth of your witness.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. Mr. Zhang, how large a fund did you intend to establish?”

  “First tranche, hundred million.”

  Megan heard Danny gasp. She wholeheartedly agreed. She sorted through several responses and settled on, “Mr. Zhang, when you first approached my firm, you said you wanted to invest five million dollars.”

  “Five is number for outsiders.” Zhang smiled at her. “I keep secret.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Hundred million, too many people, too many lies. Five million, nobody care.”

  That had been precisely the response of her law firm. And the only reason Megan had been assigned this client. She changed gears. “How did you come to know my client?”

  “I hire you to investigate. I say, find me honest man. Must know film business top to bottom.”

  “What happened as a result of your request?”

  “You bring me five names. I meet three. Choose Byrd.”

  “Did you inform my client he was being considered to lead your film fund?”

  “No.” Zhang was clearly enjoying himself. “Today big surprise.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Have small funds. Me only. Eight hundred thousand.”

  “You selected Daniel Byrd and yet did not inform him of your real purpose? I find that remarkable, sir. Can you explain to the court why you chose to remain silent?”

  “Three reasons. I meet Byrd on set. He very busy. Fourteen, sixteen hour days. I wait.”