Leaving the World Page 28

  ‘Yeah, that’s it. Not sure how I could forget a name like that. As it turns out, Fantastic Filmworks didn’t have the rights to sell the film.’

  ‘That’s crazy.’

  ‘It’s the truth. They had letters of agreement from the director and his producer. But a letter of agreement is just that. An agreement, not a binding contract. The director and producer got approached by a big-deal French distribution company, Continental Divide, who told them they could take over the entire film-sales end. Plus they could give them, up front, three-quarters of a million dollars in cash. The director . . . what was his name again?’

  ‘Stuart Tompkins.’

  ‘That’s it. Well, Tompkins was quoted in the article as saying that, given all the buzz surrounding the film a few months ago in Cannes, he and his producer were rather disappointed by the level of sales figures generated by Fantastic Filmworks and felt that Continental Divide could simply do better. Then there was the matter of Fantastic Filmworks’s expenditures . . .’

  While Alkan was talking I’d managed to go online and Google the article in Daily Variety. It was all there – exactly as he’d described it, with the additional following statement from Stuart Tompkins:

  ‘I was genuinely troubled not just by Fantastic Filmworks’s lack of transparency when it came to giving us a full financial accounting of all the sales to date, but also their refusal to disclose expenditure. It was apparent to me that Fantastic Filmworks had been spending an exorbitant amount of money selling the film – to the point where my advisers and I felt they could be accused of profligacy.’

  The journalist then cited several examples of Theo and Adrienne’s extravagance – throwing a party for three hundred people at Cannes, at a cost of over $100,000; renting a suite at the Petit Majestic Hotel during the festival at a cost of $27,000; Adrienne having her very own car and driver during Cannes at an estimated cost of $5,000 . . .

  The Daily Variety guy had done his homework. There were at least six other examples of Fantastic Filmworks’s excessive expenditure, from ‘chartering a helicopter to bring a dozen prospective buyers to lunch at the Colombe D’Or in St Paul de Vence’, to ‘co-managing director Adrienne Clegg ordering $800 of fresh flowers every day for their sales suite in Cannes’.

  The journalist also managed to interview Clegg – and she was deeply unrepentant.

  ‘I find it unbelievable that Stuart Tompkins accuses Fantastic Filmworks of profligacy when it is thanks to our phenomenal salesmanship that his little splatter movie stands to become an international sensation.

  ‘Why does he have these people fighting over him? Because Fantastic Filmworks took this little nothing and turned him into the directorial hot property that he is now. How does he repay our hard work on his behalf? He now tries to renege on a binding Letter of Agreement that clearly states that Fantastic Filmworks holds exclusive sales rights to his film.’

  But Tompkins’s lawyer, a certain Bob Block of the Hollywood law firm of Block, Bascombe and Abeloff, begged to differ.

  ‘A Letter of Agreement is not a binding contract and an allegedly experienced film-sales agent like Adrienne Clegg should know this. But she evidently does not – which is not at all surprising, considering how she has treated the film sales of Delta Kappa Gangster as her own personal expense account, allowing her to live the high life and indulge in overpriced whims.’

  There were several more paragraphs about how Continental Divide was one of France’s best-known international film-production houses – and how the $750,000 advance to Stuart Tompkins was also being matched by an additional $150,000 for first option on his soon-to-be-completed new screenplay – which, though initially contracted by Fantastic Filmworks, had now been taken over by the French. There was another angry quote from Adrienne saying how her company had a signed agreement with Stuart for first refusal on the screenplay – and that she was planning to tie the entire film up in ‘the biggest damn lawsuit Stuart Tompkins has ever seen’. The Daily Variety reporter seemed to see right through such bluff, stating that he couldn’t imagine a small-beer operation like Fantastic Filmworks taking on ‘a major European player’ like Continental Divide, ‘because their pockets simply aren’t deep enough . . . and they are now very empty after having their one and only “banker” taken away from them’.

  ‘Good God,’ I said after quickly scanning the piece. Alkan was still on the other end of the phone.

  ‘It is something of a mess,’ he said. ‘And I took the liberty of calling Bob Block and explaining that I was representing you as a duped investor in Fantastic Filmworks. He told me that Fantastic Filmworks were under siege on all fronts, as all that profligacy has resulted in such substantial debts. That’s what’s worrying me here, vis-à-vis you. The company was never incorporated or made limited liability. You are an officer of a partnership. From what I can gather, you are also the only member of said partnership who has anything in the way of assets or equity . . . unless I’m mistaken . . .’

  ‘Theo’s only asset is a vast collection of DVDs.’

  ‘Are there any valuable collectors’ items among them?’

  ‘I doubt they’re worth half a million.’

  ‘And Ms Clegg . . . ?’

  ‘Maybe she has Cayman Island accounts . . . but I tend to doubt it.’ I could have added that the woman always struck me as something of a vagabond, always fleeing the last place in which she screwed up and setting up shop in the next city that would be taken in by her lies . . . for a while.

  ‘I did check into Ms Clegg’s background . . . and the reason why, perhaps, she was so reluctant to incorporate the company was because she already has three previous bankruptcies behind her. Had she asked for incorporation, checks would have been made—’

  ‘And I wouldn’t be in the situation I’m in right now.’

  ‘It’s sometimes very difficult,’ he said quietly, ‘to think in a cold pragmatic way about an investment when you are also investing in the person with whom you are sharing your life.’

  ‘You don’t need to make excuses for me. I knew what I was doing and I let neediness get in the way of clear thinking. The thing now, Mr Alkan, is to limit my liability as much as possible. So tell me this – what’s the worst-case scenario?’

  ‘The absolutely worst case?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘The creditors of Fantastic Filmworks commence legal proceedings to seize all your assets up to the amount of debt owing.’

  ‘Jesus,’ I said – even though I’d known this was coming.

  ‘Now let me reassure you – that is absolutely the worst-case scenario and one that I will fight like hell to avoid . . . if, that is, you want to engage me to fight this.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve got the job, Mr Alkan.’

  ‘You don’t have to decide this today, Ms Howard.’

  ‘Yes, I do. We need to fight this immediately.’

  ‘That’s fine by me. And I do understand you are a college professor without bottomless pockets . . .’

  ‘How much do you think this could cost?’

  ‘At this point, without really knowing the extent to which the creditors might be pursuing you, that’s difficult to say. I would probably need a retainer of, say, five thousand dollars.’

  ‘Jesus,’ I heard myself say again.

  ‘Might that prove difficult for you to raise?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I have it,’ I said. That was a half-truth. I had $9,352 (I dug the statement out of my desk as I was talking to Alkan) in a Money Market account at Fleet Bank, the result of saving a steady $300 month for the past . . . Well, I wasn’t going to do the math right now, though I did know that this account was the start of a college savings fund for Emily – and that what little money I had left over from the Freedom Mutual days (around $16,000) was my emergency stash, to be touched only if I was absolutely destitute.

  ‘I’ll send you a check tomorrow,’ I said. ‘But if the legal costs run higher . . .’

  ‘Let’
s not worry about that for the moment,’ he said, the translation of which could be: Actually the fees could run to five times that amount because, contractually speaking, you could lose everything you own.

  ‘My one and only major asset in the world is my apartment in Somerville. Were I to lose all that . . .’

  ‘I’m going to make certain you don’t.’

  Even though it may cost me $50,000 to hold on to it.

  ‘There are many loopholes we can use, like the fact that Clegg refused to provide you with up-to-date accounts as a way of shielding you.’

  ‘But the worst-case scenario still is . . .’

  ‘I wouldn’t be honest with you if I didn’t say that, yes, there are great concerns here. And I’m not trying to slap you on the wrist, but you should never sign a business agreement without having a lawyer read through it first.’

  ‘I was dumb.’

  ‘No – your intentions were good ones . . .’

  ‘But naive. And now I’m going to be asset-stripped for my naivety.’

  ‘I believe I can save you from that.’

  ‘But you can’t be definitive about that.’

  ‘Ms Howard, my position here is akin to that of an oncologist. If an oncologist feels the situation is hopeless, then it is truly hopeless. If a lawyer believes the case is discouraging he also says so. I’m not saying that here. But like any cancer specialist I cannot give you a definitive answer to the question anyone in your situation wants to know: Will I unequivocally defeat the bastards? More than likely, yes . . . but I can’t say more than that. Because life is never definitive, is it?’

  After I concluded this call I sat in my office very quietly for around twenty minutes, trying to absorb all that I had just heard. Part of me was furious with myself for not having taken the necessary protective steps in the first place. Part of me simultaneously wondered whether I had subconsciously set myself up – as we all do so often despite our protests to the contrary. After all, I hated Adrienne Clegg on sight. And yet, I still – still! – signed over all that money and also allowed myself to be named an officer of the company. What was I thinking?

  I was thinking: I deserve all the bad stuff that is going to come down from this. Because . . .

  Because there is a part of me that always believes I deserve disaster.

  And if the next few weeks proved anything it was the discovery that, when people want to get even, they always get vindictive.

  I was in daily contact with Mr Alkan – as he was almost in daily contact with the long list of people and companies to whom Fantastic Filmworks owed money. Their landlord in Cambridge was still chasing for his $19,000 in back rent. The helicopter charter people in Nice were not responding well to two unpaid bills for over $17,000. A caterer in LA was still trying to chase them down for $9,400 that they dropped on a big bash when they were swanning around the American Film Market. And then there was—

  No, you don’t need to hear every last extravagance and frill and ridiculously irresponsible outlay Adrienne and Theo made in pursuit of . . .

  That was a point which often vexed me – her need to spend in such a lavish and excessive way and Theo’s ready compliance when it came to buying into her prodigality. What compulsive need was she fulfilling? What terrible damage was she trying to set right? Or was she simply one of those malignant people who couldn’t help but wreak havoc wherever she landed? I had my theories (and like all such speculations they changed hourly) but what I did understand now was that – whether it was intentional or not – there was some trigger in the woman that made her want to fail. How else could you explain turning a $1.5 million windfall into financial catastrophe? And with Theo – my Theo – she found a willing accomplice.

  For the biggest betrayal here was the one that Theo perpetrated on himself. By allying himself with such a psychotic loser he made me realize: he wants the failure too. It was something akin to an amateur poker player who – with beginner’s luck – wins a vast pot. Then, terrified of this financial godsend, let alone the success, he doesn’t bank a large portion of his money. Instead he decides to remain at the table and gamble recklessly with his good fortune until, of course, it’s all been blown. He finds himself not only broke, but in serious debt to boot.

  And then, like my father, he had to vanish into that geographic place called nowhere, leaving others to deal with the mess he’d left behind.

  Vanished was the operative word here. A few days after I read that Variety story online and sent a flurry of emails to Theo and Adrienne, demanding they speak to me (there was, of course, no response – nor any to the dozen messages I left on their respective cellphones) there was a new article in Daily Variety.

  Mr Alkan saw it before me and phoned me at the university to tell me its content.

  ‘According to the journalist who’s been investigating all this, Ms Clegg and Mr Morgan have gone to ground. As in disappeared without a trace.’

  I was online and on to the Daily Variety website within moments. There it was – replete with the headline:

  Fantastic Filmworks Duo Disappear Owing Half a Million

  The story went on to explain that only days after threatening lawsuits against their defecting star director, Stuart Tompkins, ‘Fantastic Filmworks duo, Adrienne Clegg and Theo Morgan, have literally gone AWOL, with a bevy of creditors and lawyers trying to trace their whereabouts.’

  The journalist stated that the ‘duo’ – last seen in London, staying at the ‘minimalist chic Metropolitan Hotel’ – were due to board a flight from London Heathrow to Los Angeles, where they were planning to meet their own legal team – as well as have a thrash-out session with Stuart Tompkins’s lawyers. But at the very last minute, they no-showed the flight.

  Evidently smelling a great story, the journalist also explained how he spoke to the concierge of the Metropolitan in London, who confirmed that the couple did leave on the day in question and asked him to make reservations for them on a mid-morning Eurostar train to Paris. The couple spent one night in a Paris hotel – the George V (and he pointed out the $780 price tag they paid) – but then checked out with no forwarding address. They hadn’t been heard of since.

  ‘As you can imagine,’ Mr Alkan told me in the first of many phone calls that day, ‘all the creditors are swarming around us as you are the only accessible “partner” in the company. Now – a couple of ground rules here. I note that you don’t have an unlisted phone number. What I want you to do is not answer your landline – or, at least, buy one of those old-fashioned answering machines where you can hear the message being left for you, so you can screen all calls. And if an unknown number pops up on your cellphone, don’t answer it.’

  ‘What happens if people start calling me at the university?’

  ‘Again, I’d get one of those answerphones.’

  ‘Everything comes through a central switchboard.’

  ‘Then tell anyone who needs to contact you to use your cell – and simply don’t pick up the phone. Sorry to sound dramatic but there are a lot of angry creditors desperate to find someone to cover the money they’re owed. Never underestimate the awfulness of people when money is involved and the individuals in question take offense at being cheated. The fact that you are the innocent party here is, I’m afraid, secondary to it all. You are the only alleged representative of the company so you will be the focus of their anger. But it will pass – especially as I plan to contact every creditor and inform them that my client was simply an investor in the company and cannot be held legally responsible for their debts.’

  I started calculating just how much this exercise would cost me. There were over thirty creditors. Say Mr Alkan spent ten minutes emailing and/or phoning each of them. That would be three hundred minutes. Or five hours . . . at two hundred dollars per hour. And then there were all the phone calls with me, and all the discussions with Bob Block at Block, Bascombe and Abeloff, and all the other attendant business to do with keeping me from being swamped by this mess.


  ‘How much have you billed me for to date?’ I asked.

  ‘Let’s worry about that later.’

  ‘I need to know.’

  ‘Around four thousand dollars. But look – all going well, this round of emails and phone calls to all the creditors will hopefully get them off your back and then we can get a court judgment stating that you are not responsible for Fantastic Filmworks’s accrued debts, and that will be the end of it.’

  ‘In other words, around another five thousand dollars on top of the five I’ve already paid over.’

  A pause.

  ‘I wish this could be cheaper for you,’ he finally said. ‘But all I can promise you is that I will try to end this all as quickly as possible. I’m very conscious of the fact that your resources are limited.’

  ‘Is there any sign of the two outlaws?’

  ‘None at all. Interpol are now involved, given that there are now allegations of fraud. I could, of course, engage a private investigator on our behalf, but the cost would be—’

  ‘Forget it. Just keep the vultures away from me and I’ll tough things out until everything dies down.’

  Toughing things out turned out to be exactly right. For the next two weeks I was the subject of a frequently intense and vituperative campaign of intimidation by several of Fantastic Filmworks’s creditors. According to Alkan, seventy-five percent of the creditors accepted his explanation that, as the sole investor in the company, I couldn’t be held responsible for their financial mismanagement – but these were the big organizations (the hotels, car and helicopter hire companies and financial services groups) who could absorb a bad debt, and probably decided that it wasn’t worth harassing a low-paid academic who was stupid enough to invest in a splatter movie. But then there were a handful of creditors who wouldn’t buy this explanation – and made it their business to frighten me into settling up with them.

  The caterer in California – Vicky Smatherson – was one of the more aggressive ones. From the sound of her voice she was in her early forties – and she was very ‘take no shit’ in her tone. I was at home, playing on the floor with Emily, when she first rang. As soon as I heard the phone begin to chime I stiffened. As it continued to ring, Emily asked me: ‘Why you don’t answer the phone, Mommy?’