Unscripted Page 3

  “And the second reason?”

  “My partners call. They hear rumors. China central bank worried about money leaving country. So much money. New permits halted. But rumors say old permits halted too.”

  “But Mr. Zhang, you stated that the government had already issued your export permits.”

  Zhang was no longer smiling. “This China. Central bank say word, all change.”

  “I see. And the third reason?”

  Zhang’s gaze turned onyx hard as he focused on Megan’s client. “I like Danny Byrd. I no trust partner.”

  Slowly Megan shifted from her position behind the defense table to the side lectern. “You met John Rexford?”

  “One time. Not long.”

  “Did you ask me to investigate him as well?”

  “Some. Not much. No need. I no do business with him.”

  “You intended to offer Mr. Byrd the leadership of your fund on the proviso that he cease his relationship with Mr. Rexford?”

  The judge interrupted with, “Do you understand the word ‘proviso’?”

  “Condition. Yes. Is so.”

  Megan asked, “But you did not reveal your concerns about Mr. Rexford?”

  “No. I not tell Danny Byrd because money not come.”

  “And then, after Mr. Byrd’s arrest, you invested eight hundred thousand dollars in his current project, is that correct?”

  “This money I bring for setting up office and developing first projects.” Zhang shrugged. “No more money come. No need office. Danny say this good film. I invest.”

  “Mr. Zhang, were you surprised to learn that Mr. Byrd’s partner had stolen the firm’s money?”

  “Surprised, no.” Zhang’s gaze remained tightly focused upon Danny. “But very much sorry.”

  4

  THURSDAY NIGHT Danny dreamed he was back in foster care. Eleven years old, small for his age, trapped in that awful system. The dream departed with a sharpish jolt that shot him from asleep to sitting up in bed. He sat there, waiting for his heart rate to ease, the memories surrounding him like a rancid cloud. Danny knew from experience that sleep would stay a stranger, at least for a while. He dressed and slipped from his room.

  The moon was strong and high enough to shine full on the San Luis Obispo guesthouse’s interior courtyard. Every leaf of the carefully tended shrubbery glowed pewter. Water flowing in the central fountain sparkled like mercury. Danny sat where he could listen to the liquid melody. It didn’t take a genius to know why he’d had that same dream almost every night since his arrest. He tried to tell himself things were looking up. But at 1:30 on a cloudless night, the script he read in the stars overhead carried a single bitter message. Danny Byrd had lost everything.

  Bankrupt, the fountain sang. Reputation destroyed.

  Penniless, the night breeze whispered. Dreams shattered.

  Worst of all, Danny told the night, JR had stolen his last shred of trust.

  Despite it all, he missed his best friend. He smiled at the dancing water and recalled that first crazy year. He could still remember the moment Johnny Rexford had been assigned the bunk opposite his own. Six kids crammed in a bedroom only slightly larger than a closet. A human powder keg that erupted all too often. Johnny was a year older but even smaller than Danny. That very first night, Johnny and Danny had become fast friends. Johnny Rocket and Danny Boy against all comers.

  Half an hour later, the nightmare had been tucked back in its cave, and Danny returned to his little room. He cut off the AC and opened his window, letting the water’s tinkling melody carry him back to sleep.

  The next morning Danny woke at 6:15 sharp. He did not try to fight the lingering connection to jail time. He rose and made a cup of coffee in the guesthouse’s Nespresso machine. He had never used one before and could not get over how good it tasted. Many things carried those simple jolts of pleasure so intense he actually felt guilty. As though he did not deserve a good coffee. Or how nice it was to stand in his doorway and watch the dawn gather strength.

  Danny finished his cup, dressed in shorts and T-shirt and Reeboks, and went for a run. A dawn mist drifted through the streets, as vague as his whispers of fear and regret. Danny knew he could not outrun the unease and did not try. He listened to his breath and the soft drumbeat of his footsteps on the pavement. He did his best to focus on the distance—the trees and the rising sun and the endless blue overhead. All the things he had not seen for seven long weeks. Trying to claim this day as his.

  The previous afternoon, Danny had been processed out of the Beverly Hills jail to find a limo waiting. The silent driver had handed him an envelope bearing the logo of Sol Feinnes’s law firm. In it was a brief letter saying that Danny was booked into a San Luis Obispo guesthouse and they would meet the following day to discuss his next steps. The envelope also held five hundred dollars in cash.

  The limo took Danny to his former office, where a deputy waited to unseal the door and allow him to enter. Most of the contents were still classed as part of the criminal action now leveled against JR. But Danny had turned the back two rooms into an apartment he used whenever he was forced to call Los Angeles home. The attorney’s letter had informed Danny that the court had granted him permission to retrieve clothes and personal items. The deputy watched closely while Danny filled a case. He was not allowed to take anything electronic, not even his phone. It was ridiculous, but after a month and three weeks in jail, Danny had learned that complaints against the system were a waste of good air.

  The deputy locked and resealed the office, then led Danny back down to the waiting limo. Danny felt no regret over leaving Los Angeles. He had never liked the city much. Part of JR’s duties had been to play the local scene and dig up work. That’s all Danny had ever wanted from the town. Work. He had hated LA’s version of the high life from his first day. JR, on the other hand, lived for it. It was part of why they had made such a perfect team.

  Or so Danny had thought.

  The sun was strong and the heat rising when Danny returned to the guesthouse. He stretched and showered and dressed. Over breakfast, he worked on a list of the questions for which he needed answers. Starting with who had wanted Danny’s freedom enough to pay for his new legal team? But the most important questions he did not bother writing out. As in, what was he supposed to do with a life where his dreams had all been shattered?

  Danny dressed in a clean shirt and slacks. His only formal clothes were the suit and tie he’d worn for his last day in court. As soon as he could, he planned on burning them.

  He obtained directions from the receptionist and set out on foot.

  San Luis Obispo was his kind of town. His favorite childhood memories were all centered on families who had sought out American backwaters. Places where schools were for learning and normal teenage emotions did not inspire students to pack guns. Towns where people still forgot to lock their doors and didn’t much care. Families who brought in foster kids because they wanted to try to help the least and the neglected.

  Danny’s film work had brought him into regular contact with lawyers. Most of the LA legal types he’d despised. In contrast, he liked Sol Feinnes’s firm from the moment he entered. There was none of the pretension or aggressive gung-ho absurdity he had spent years avoiding.

  When he gave the receptionist his name, she responded by offering him a handful of message slips. “A Mr. Greg Riggs has been trying to reach you. He’s called seven times already this morning.”

  Danny felt the day’s first rage. “Thanks.”

  The receptionist clearly saw the thunder in his expression and added, “Mr. Feinnes said to tell you he will handle this caller if you wish.”

  Danny was tempted but decided this was something he needed to do himself. “Is there somewhere private?”

  She pointed to his left. “The first conference room isn’t being used.” Her phone rang. She glanced at the readout and said, “Here he is again.”

  Friday morning Megan was the first visitor to arrive at t
he offices of Sol Feinnes. The place had nothing in common with Megan’s Beverly Hills firm except the law they practiced. And Megan was not altogether certain about that.

  The reception area was decorated in earth tones with hand-cast ceramics on the central coffee tables and desert landscapes on the walls. Behind the receptionist opened a large central office with space for another seven employees. The entire left wall was rimmed by windows. The atmosphere was quietly frenetic, the staff cheerful and intent.

  By contrast, Megan’s Beverly Hills reception area was lit by lasers flashing through a central steel waterfall. The mammoth sculpture stood in a pool lined with fist-sized chunks of aquamarine. The reflection created a ceaseless electronic rhythm on the polished slate walls. Megan despised the ego-dominated atmosphere.

  She pushed the useless thoughts aside and fielded a dozen emails on her phone. She typed over sixty words a minute using just her thumbs, more if she was irate, which happened with increasing frequency these days. She had taken aim at a major LA firm during her first year in law school. She had clerked, she had interned, she had earned her position on the Law Review. She had won her coveted slot in the big league. She should be . . .

  Sol Feinnes entered the reception area and asked, “Ms. Pierce, are you early or am I late?”

  She stowed her phone and rose to her feet. “I decided to get out of LA before the rush hour.”

  “Great. Come on back. You mind if I ask a couple of my colleagues to join us?”

  Sol moved with deceptive ease, an aging dancer who clearly met life at double time. He ushered her into his office, directed her into the corner sofa set, asked how she took her coffee, and slipped away. When he returned, he was accompanied by two colleagues. Randolf Warner was an older gentleman who cut a dapper figure in his tailored grey suit. Sonya Barrett was a decade or so senior to Megan and encased in the shellacked armor of a full-on litigator.

  When his secretary arrived with coffee, Sol made a courtly business of serving Megan. He seated himself and said, “Your firm certainly has a great deal of clout in the LA basin, Ms. Pierce.”

  Randolf Warner said, “To arrange a pretrial hearing on thirty-six hours’ notice is a remarkable feat.”

  Megan smiled and sipped her coffee and pretended to accept the compliment as it was intended. There was nothing to be gained from regaling this trio with the outrage and fury she had endured as a result of her calls to Judge Richter. How Aaron Seibel, her boss, had reprimanded her for using the firm’s influence on behalf of a bankrupt line producer and a Chinese refugee with a few coins in his pocket.

  Sonya Barrett added, “Not to mention forcing the prosecuting attorney to drop all charges.”

  “Truly amazing,” Sol agreed. “My hat is off, Ms. Pierce.”

  Megan knew the response they probably expected. She had heard such reactions often enough. Her answer to their praise should build herself up. Make herself into the star.

  She couldn’t do it. The unspoken words tasted so vile she almost gagged.

  “Actually,” Megan replied, “Ms. Suarez was expecting my call. She didn’t come out and say it, but I’m convinced she had become increasingly certain the police had arrested the wrong man.”

  Randolf leaned back. Megan had the distinct impression he was somehow satisfied by her response.

  Sonya adopted the same tone she had probably used to interrogate a thousand witnesses. Deceptively smooth and calm, backed up by a smile that did not touch her eyes. “Ms. Pierce, am I correct in assuming you believe Daniel Byrd to be innocent of all charges?”

  “Call me Megan, please. And to answer your question, the moment I heard of Byrd’s arrest I knew we were looking at a serious miscarriage of justice. I asked to take on his case pro bono.”

  “Your firm refused to allow it?”

  “Something like that.” The way her boss had put it was, Do it and perish.

  Sonya glanced at Sol, who seemed to be fascinated with whatever he found in the depths of his mug. “I’m new to this case. Could you explain to me why the court jumped on Daniel Byrd over a few thousand dollars?”

  When Sol Feinnes showed no interest in correcting his associate, Megan replied, “Actually, the total was 1.9 million. And to answer your question, Beverly Hills is a company town.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “The courts are geared to protect the film world. Byrd’s partner had secretly been withholding payments for months. We found dozens of past-due notices in Rexford’s in-box.”

  “I understand some money was also missing from the firm’s account.”

  “Not just the firm. John Rexford had power of attorney over all of Byrd’s personal accounts. Danny Byrd had spent six years saving almost every cent he’d earned. He lived for his work and clearly had aims beyond just line production. Between film gigs he audited the books and did the taxes for small suppliers. Bank records show John Rexford stole almost six hundred thousand dollars from Byrd’s accounts.”

  “Did Byrd have a particular goal in mind for those savings?”

  “You’d have to ask him.”

  “You researched him thoroughly, Megan. I’m asking for your best guess.”

  “I think Danny Byrd wanted to become a player. Invest in his films. Take an active role as coproducer.”

  Everything about Sonya Barrett was carefully controlled. When she tilted her head, not a strand of her grey-brown hair shifted. Megan wondered if the woman was due in court that day. She could think of no reason why the attorney would take such care on her behalf.

  Sonya said, “You like him. Daniel Byrd.”

  “I’ve only spoken directly with him once, the day we met at the city jail. But it’s safe to say I admire him.”

  “Can you tell us how you came to know of him?”

  “Funny,” Megan said. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  Sol spoke up. “Ms. Pierce—Megan—if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it very much if you’d allow us to set your questions aside for the moment.”

  There was no reason why Sol’s words should cause Megan’s heart to race. But there was nothing she could do about it, or the sudden catch to her reply. “Sure thing.”

  Sonya asked again, “How did you identify Daniel Byrd?”

  “It was astonishingly simple. I asked around. There is a sort of underclass of filmmakers in Los Angeles. I’ve worked with a number of them. They all said the same thing. Danny Byrd was the most honest man in Hollywood.”

  Sonya said, “What do you mean by the term ‘underclass’?”

  “The top-tier names are a world unto themselves. They work mostly on studio projects. The old division between television and film is basically gone these days. Even Steven Spielberg has produced a TV series for NBC. Below these major names there’s a second level, and below them a third. These people are Hollywood’s version of contract employees. They are constantly hunting for their next gig.”

  “And this is the level at which Daniel Byrd operated, correct?”

  “Right. He got his start as a junior accountant for Lifetime. Then a promotion took him to Hallmark, where he operated as the in-house project administrator on a number of made-for-TV films. He switched to line production six years ago.”

  “How old was he then?”

  “Twenty-eight.” Which made him a year older than Megan.

  “Tell me about Byrd’s partner.”

  “John Rexford and Daniel Byrd were in foster care together. Rexford is by all accounts a natural salesman. According to one person I interviewed, JR wouldn’t just find an Alaskan buyer for ice. He’d arrange a bidding war.”

  “Why would a line producer need a partner?”

  “Two reasons,” Megan replied. “First, Byrd is known to despise Los Angeles. He needed a local partner to be on the watch for new gigs. But Rexford played a second important role, and this in my opinion is the key to Byrd’s long-term plans.”

  “And that was?”

  “Most of these inde
pendent films have difficulty finding distributors. Many wind up with deals that mean they never see any return. Danny Byrd and John Rexford were building a reputation for selling these rights. Rexford sold the concept, then Byrd negotiated the contracts and protected the producers’ backs. It’s why so many of them have become his fans.”

  Sol broke in with, “Seems like an odd time for Rexford to rob his partner and leave town.”

  Megan nodded. She had been wondering the same thing. “We’re missing something.”

  Sonya asked, “Is your aversion to Rexford simply the result of his recent actions?”

  Megan thought through several responses and settled on, “Los Angeles is a magnet for people like John Rexford.”

  Sonya made a process of lifting her cup, taking a sip, setting it carefully back on the saucer. “Sol?”

  “You’re doing just fine,” he replied.

  She turned back to their guest. “Megan, tell us a little about yourself.”

  5

  THERE IT WAS. The invitation Megan could easily deflect. Asked in the same casual tone as the rest of this remarkable conversation. “I assume you’re not asking about my official background.”

  “Of course not. Sol familiarized himself with all that before calling you. Summa cum laude, Law Review, Superior Court clerkship, the works.” Sonya was as pleasant as she was intense. “What do you think of your current situation?”

  Megan said as calmly as she could, “I love the work. I despise the firm.”

  Sol asked, “Can you please elaborate?”

  Megan felt as though she had been waiting years to speak the words aloud. “The legal structure serving the LA film world is oriented toward the studios. The lower tiers I mentioned receive a very poor level of service.”

  Sonya asked, “What does that signify in terms of your work?”

  “It’s not my work,” Megan replied. She knew she should try to match the woman’s calm demeanor, but it was impossible. “It’s never been about my work. It’s all about the attitude. The smaller production teams are treated like riffraff. The top legal firms are all focused on landing one of the big clients. Stars, studios, major producers—they’re the target. They’re handled by the partners, and they are treated like spun diamonds. Everybody else is beneath contempt.”