Sudden Death - By David Rosenfelt Page 0,19
of what we talked about?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I’ve got it.” He smiles and holds up the pad on which he’s been taking notes.
Edna lowers her voice slightly, wary of my overhearing, which I do anyway. “The point is, it’s never been done.”
Adam nods in agreement. “It’s Rocky with a pencil. Thanks for the coffee.”
Edna smiles, confident that she’s gotten her message through. On the way back to my office I stop and get my own coffee. “Rocky with a pencil?” I ask.
“Right,” he says. “Edna was pitching me an idea for a script. It’s about a young girl who grows up with a dream to be the best crossword puzzle player in America. Winds up winning the national title and representing America against the Russian champion in the Olympics.”
“I didn’t know crossword puzzling was an Olympic sport,” I say.
He nods. “She knows the idea needs a little work.”
I take a sip of Edna’s coffee, which is not the greatest way to start the day. It tastes like kerosene, though I doubt kerosene is this lumpy. “Your coming at this time may be a little awkward,” I say.
“Because of the Schilling case?” he asks.
“Yes. I assume you want to observe us, but everything you’d observe would be protected by client privilege. Which means you aren’t allowed to hear it.”
“I thought you’d say that. I may have come up with a solution.”
“I can’t imagine how you could,” I say.
“A close friend of mine is a lawyer, and I talked to him about it. Here’s the plan: You have people that work here that aren’t lawyers, right? Like Edna, or maybe outside investigators. They are bound by the privilege because they work for you, right?”
“Right,” I say, immediately seeing where he’s going.
“So hire me. Pay me a dollar to be your investigator. I’ll be covered by the privilege, and I’ll sign a confidentiality pledge that only you or your client can release me from.”
Surprisingly, the idea is a good one, at least legally. But it’s not good enough to make me want to do it. I just don’t need someone hanging around during the intensity of a murder trial. On the other hand, I signed a contract and committed to this project, so I have an obligation.
“I have my doubts,” I say. “But I’ll talk to my client.”
“It would really mean a lot to me,” he says. “The Schilling case is real drama, you know? And depending on how it comes out, it’s a movie that can get made.”
“What about the Willie Miller case?” I ask. “Isn’t that a movie that will get made?”
He smiles. “I wish, but no way. It’s jerk-off time.”
He’s lost me. “Excuse me? Why is the studio buying it if they don’t plan to make it? Why would they pay you to write it?”
“You’re not going to like this, but think of movie production as a long pipeline,” he says. “Executives, some smart, some idiots, feed projects into the pipeline because they’ve been told the pipe is supposed to be filled. And that’s their job: They’re pipe fillers.”
“So?” is my probing question.
“So the problem is that the other end of the pipe leads to the sewer, which is where ninety-nine percent of the projects wind up.”
“But the theaters are filled with movies,” I point out.
He nods. “Right. Because every once in a while a big-shot producer or director or star punches a hole in the pipe and pulls out a project before it can get to the sewer. But once they do, they patch it back up so nothing else leaks out.”
“Have you ever had a movie made?”
He shakes his head. “Not even close. But the Schilling case could stay out of the sewer. It’s Pride of the Yankees meets In Cold Blood.”
“Do you always talk like that?”
“Pretty much. I’ve loved movies since I was a little kid, and there’s a movie that has dealt with just about every situation ever.”
“Except international crossword puzzle tournaments.”
He smiles. “Searching for Edna Fischer.”
I like this guy. He inhabits another world that coexists on the same planet as mine, but he seems to be honest, enthusiastic, and probably smart. “I’ll talk to Kenny. Can you give me a couple of days?”
He’s fine with that and leaves his number at the Manhattan hotel where he’s staying. “I love New York, and the studio’s paying, so take your time.”
“I recommend the mixed nuts from the minibar,” I say. “Only fourteen dollars, but there’s plenty of cashews.”
Adam leaves, and I open