Dirty Blonde, Page 2

  “Mr. Marz,” Temin began again, “tell us briefly what happened at the June meeting with Mr. Simone.”

  “Well, my background is from the DA’s office, handling cases concerning computer fraud and Internet crime. I always liked computers.” Marz sounded almost apologetic. “But I wanted to be a writer, so I started writing a screenplay for a TV show about four lawyers and how they use computer skills to solve murders. I called it Hard Drive. It was my wife who said, ‘Why don’t you do something about it?’” Marz smiled at his wife in the front row of the gallery, a sweet-faced brunette wearing a long skirt and sensible shoes. “So I called Art—Mr. Simone—and told him what I was doing and asked if he would meet with me about it, and he agreed to fly out to Philly to take the meeting.” Marz turned to the jury in an earnest way. “That’s what they call it in L.A., ‘taking a meeting.’ When they say no, they call it ‘taking a hard pass.’ A ‘soft pass’ is a maybe. I thought a soft pass was about sex, but what do I know?”

  The jurors chuckled with evident warmth. Nobody loved underdogs like Philly.

  Temin asked, “Had you known Mr. Simone, prior?”

  “Yes, I knew him from summer camp from when I was, like, ten years old. Camp Willowbark, Unit A. He was my senior counselor, and I looked up to him like a big brother. I heard he was doing TV in Hollywood, so I hoped he’d help me out.”

  “And what happened at the meeting, briefly?”

  “We met at Le Bec Fin and I told him all the details about my idea and asked him would he consider it for his production company. The lead lawyer in my series is a former detective, an Italian guy from South Philly who dresses great and is, like, a tie freak—”

  “You needn’t repeat the details,” Temin interjected, preempting Hartford’s objection.

  “Okay, right, sorry. All that’s important is that the four lawyers I told Mr. Simone about ended up being exactly like the four lawyers on Attorneys@Law.”

  “Objection, opinion!” Hartford said, and Cate waved him off.

  “Overruled. The jury knows it’s his opinion.”

  Temin paused. “By the way, Mr. Marz, were you surprised that Mr. Simone flew here to see you, as opposed to you flying out to California to see him?”

  “I was, but he said he wanted to visit his mom anyway. She lives in a nursing home in Jersey.” Marz’s expression darkened. “Now I think he said to meet in Philly because Pennsylvania law is tougher than California law on—”

  “Objection!” Hartford shouted, next to a stiffening client, and Cate raised a hand.

  “Granted. That’s enough opinion, Mr. Marz. Don’t make me sorry.”

  The jury smiled, and Temin asked, “Did Mr. Simone take notes during this meeting?”

  “No.”

  “Now, Mr. Marz, let’s jump to the second meeting on September 15 and 16, also in Philadelphia. Who was present?”

  “Myself, Detective Russo, and Mr. Simone and his assistant, Micah Gilbert.”

  “Is that Ms. Gilbert, seated in the gallery behind Mr. Simone?”

  “Yes.” Marz gestured to a pretty young woman in the front row. Micah Gilbert had attended the trial since day one, sitting next to an attractive jury consultant whose chin-length hair was an optimistic shade of red.

  “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.”

  �€
œMr. 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?”

  “No.”

  “So you discussed no specifics of this supposed deal at your luncheon meeting, did you?”

  “No.”

  “How about in any of the phone calls or the e-mails between the two of you, about which you testified last week?”

  “No, as I said, because—”

  “Yes or no.”

  ”No,” Marz answered reluctantly. His mouth snapped back into its rubber band, and the jurors eyed him, a sympathetic furrowing of their collective brow. They’d not only hold Simone liable for damages, they’d have him drawn and quartered.

  “No further questions,” Hartford said, finishing his cross more quickly than anyone except Cate had anticipated.

  “Mr. Temin, any redirect?” she asked.

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Temin returned to the lectern and embarked upon a series of questions that rehashed old ground, and Cate sustained two of Hartford’s objections for good measure. But the testimony didn’t change anything, and by its conclusion, she adjourned court for lunch, grabbing her legal pad as she rose.

  On it, she had written: IS THE ONLY JUSTICE ON TV?

  CHAPTER 2

  Cate understood on sight why Detective Frank Russo could be a fictional character. His craggy skin served as a rough canvas for dark eyes, a prominent forehead, and heavy, sensuous lips. His shiny hair, a suspicious shade of black, matched a pair of longish sideburns. He wasn’t tall, about five nine, but powerful shoulders stretched his dark jacket across a broad back, and a flashy tie of red silk proclaimed him the aforementioned “tie freak.” He sat forward in the witness stand, leaning to the black bud of a microphone.

  “Going back to that two-day meeting, who asked you to come, Detective?” Temin asked, getting to the point.

  “Mr. Marz.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He wanted me to help Mr. Simone with research.”

  “Where did you meet?”

  “Liberties.”

  Up on the dais, Cate hid her smile. Russo’s testimony was to the point, typical for law enforcement personnel. Detectives appeared in court so frequently they answered only the question asked and never volunteered a word. Cate sympathized with poor Temin, struggling to pull teeth from even his own witness.

  “And by ‘help Mr. Simone out with his research,’ what do you mean, specifically?”

  “Give him the standard operating procedures in the Homicide Division. Tell him how we handle murder cases, work with the ADA, and whatnot.”

  “Did you do anything after Liberties that day?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did you do? And please, explain as fully as possible.”

  Russo arched an offended eyebrow, like Italian kabuki. “Mr. Marz asked myself to give Mr. Simone and his assistant a tour of the Roundhouse, which I did. I showed him the squad room, I let him see the interview rooms. I introduced him to the guys, too. I was real popular that day.” Russo chuckled, and so did everyone else.

  “Detective, did Mr. Simone ask you any questions that day?”

  “He asked about our slang. He said he wanted to make the character talk like a real detective.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “We speak English.”

  The gallery laughed again, as did the jury and the deputy, loving every minute.

  “Detective Russo, did Mr. Simone take notes on what you said at the meeting?”

  “No.”

  “Was his assistant with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she take notes?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me, did you think that was strange?”

  “I think everything about Hollywood people is strange,” Russo answered deadpan, and the gallery laughed. So did Cate, caught off-guard.

  Temin waited a beat. “Detective Russo, what happened the second day of your meeting with Mr. Simone?”

  “Mr. Marz and myself drove Mr. Simone and his assistant down Delaware Avenue and other neighborhoods, not-so-nice ones in North Philly.”

  “And what took place during this drive?”

  “Mr. Marz told them where the characters in the show would live, where their law office would be, and where they’d each lunch and whatnot. He also told about his experiences as an ADA. Rich is young, but before he started with the computer crimes, he tried a murder case and major felonies.”

  “Did you provide information during the drive, too
?”

  “No.”

  Temin blinked. “What did you do?”

  “Drove.”

  “Then why were you there?”

  “Protection.”

  The jury and the gallery laughed. Cate looked down, behind her fist.

  Detective Russo added, “For the record, I used my vacation days to do this. The city didn’t foot the bill.”

  Temin cleared his throat. “Detective Russo, did Mr. Marz ever discuss with you the terms of his deal with Mr. Simone?”

  “Objection, irrelevant and calls for hearsay!” Hartford said, rising, but Temin shook his head.

  “Your Honor, as you have said, relevance is broadly defined and it’s coming in only for the fact that it was said.”

  “Overruled.” On the dais, Cate turned to the witness. “You may answer, Detective.”

  “Yes, Mr. Marz discussed the deal with me,” Russo said.

  “And what did he say?”

  “Continuing objection,” Hartford said, and Cate nodded.

  “Noted, Counsel. Detective Russo, you may answer the question.”

  “Mr. Marz told me that he made a deal with Mr. Simone and that Simone was gonna pay him when he got paid, like a contingency fee.”

  “When did Mr. Marz tell you this, Detective?”

  “Right after his lunch with Simone. He called me on his cell, walking down Walnut Street, all excited. He thought we were gonna be players.” Russo smiled in a benevolent way. “Rich gets like that, carried away, like he said. He’s like a little kid.”

  Temin paused, letting it register. “Let’s switch gears, Detective. Did you make a deal with Mr. Marz to be compensated for your time and services?”

  “With Rich? Yes.”

  “What was your deal with Mr. Marz?”

  “Objection, relevance!” Hartford rose.

  “Overruled. Relevance is broadly defined in the Federal Rules, Mr. Hartford, and this is certainly within its definition.” Cate turned again to Russo. “Go ahead and answer, Detective.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Russo faced Temin. “Mr. Marz and I had an agreement that we’d be equal partners when Mr. Simone produced the show. That I wouldn’t get any upfront money but when the show got made, I’d make whatever he made.”