Blackmail Bitch!
by
Louis Kahn Nin
Smashwords Edition
2012
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Previously published in paperback by Ophelia Press Books as The Lusty Lawyer by Paul Merchant. This edition has been updated and attributed to Louis Kahn Nin as the author.
Cover art by Robert McGinnis, re-processed. The image is in the public domain; fair use is applied here.
PART I
The Plaintiff
ONE
You’re not exactly sure how you got here, but here you are: in this woman’s apartment—you’re in her bed and you’re fucking her. You’re fucking her without a condom and let’s face it: you’re enjoying yourself. You’re having fun because this is dangerous and the jeopardy makes you feel alive. You haven’t felt alive in months—years. The woman has long reddish-brown hair, big breasts that you know can’t be real, and she’s a deep and heavy moaner. You don’t know her name; you don’t remember her name. Shelly? Sheila? Sharon? Something that started with an “s.” Well, at this point in the game, it doesn’t matter. You met her at the nightclub in SoHo. What’s the name of that place? You were there with a client, your client was celebrating, you felt obliged to attend. You won the case, after all—well, you didn’t win in court, there was no lengthy trial, you played hardball and got your client a nice settlement, something you’re very good at. It was a breach of contract thing; your client walked off with some extra money in his pocket, and you made the law firm you work for a tiny bit richer. There’ll be a bonus come Christmas, which isn’t too far away. It’s almost the end of August, it’s still hot in New York, and it’s hot in this woman’s apartment. You’re sweating, she’s sweating: let’s face it, this is a fine fuck going on here. Her cunt’s a little loose, and you shouldn’t be surprised. You wonder how often she brings one-night stands over. You’re still not sure how you have found yourself here. You drank too much at the club. You were dancing, you were laughing. You liked the blue mini-dress this woman was wearing: no bra and hard nipples. You’re a nipple man. “Nice tits,” you said. She said, “What?” You do recall—and this is vague—the cab ride. But where in the city are you? Does it matter? Right now you’re screwing this woman and that’s all that matters; your cock is inside a warm wet pussy and that should be enough for you. “Fuck me,” the woman says, “fuck me you dirty bastard.”
***
She wakes you up with a blow-job. At first you think you’re dreaming, but then it all comes back: the club, the cab, the inebriated sex. Her make-up is smeared all over her face and her hair is in tangles and she’s sucking your dick so hard her teeth scrape against the foreskin. She goes, “Mmm-hmm.” She gets on top of you. You stare at her breasts and they don’t move a bit as she bounces up and down. They’re fake all right. You figure she’s in her early thirties.
After you come, she says, “Nice.”
“What time is it?” you ask.
“Ten-thirty,” she says.
“In the morning?”
“I hope so.”
“Shit. What day is it?”
She laughs at that.
“I’m serious. Is it Thursday morning?”
“Tuesday.”
“Shit,” you say, “oh shit.”
“What’s wrong?” the woman says. “Wife to get back to?”
“Job,” you say, finding your clothes—suit and tie—on the floor. “I don’t have a wife anymore.”
“What do you do?”
You smile. “Lawyer.”
“Oh, that’s right. I knew it was—I don’t know, a banker or investor. One of those things. Lawyer, yes. Well, you fuck good for a lawyer.”
“Can I use your bathroom?”
“Of course you can,” she says. “You can use my toothbrush too. I don’t care. I ate your cum last night, so...”
You wash your face in the bathroom. You don’t use her toothbrush. You rub some toothpaste on your fingers and apply the fingers to your teeth. You make use of her bottle of green mouthwash—it burns your tongue and gums. Your hair is short enough so it doesn’t look messy. You think you can pass for the morning; you don’t have time to go home and change. Fortunately, you keep an extra suit, shirt, socks and shoes in your office for these occasions. You use the woman’s deodorant, too.
She’s still on the bed and naked. She spreads her legs and touches her pussy. “I could go for another roll,” she says.
“I’d love to,” you say, “but I have to get to the office.”
“I see,” she says. “Well, for the hell of it, what’s your name? I’m sure you told me, but...”
“Chip,” you say.
“Chip?”
“It’s really James, but everyone calls me Chip.”
“Mine’s Cinderella,” she says, closing her legs. “Cindy.”
“Well, Cindy—”
“It was fun,” she says.
“It was.”
“Have a good day, Chip.”
You start to go, but you have to stop and ask her something. “Cindy,” you inquire, “where in the city are we?”
“We’re not,” she says. “This is Brooklyn.”
TWO
You’re on the L train leaving Brooklyn, going under the earth and heading for Manhattan. The subway is crowded and smells putrid. You’re standing. There’s a man in a wool overcoat with long black hair next to you and his body keeps bumping into yours. He looks to be in his mid-40s; he’s handsome and he has a tan, so you know right away he’s not from here. He also has very white, even teeth.
“So,” he says, “how are things?”
“They could be better,” you say.
“Me,” he says, “I’m pretty content.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“You’re from New York?”
“I live here now,” you say. “Nevada, originally.”
He says, “I’m from L.A. myself,” so that explains the good teeth and the tan.
Being polite, you ask, “Are you here for business or pleasure?”
“Both,” he says. “I come here for business maybe three, four times a year. But I’ve been flying in almost once a month now.” He adds, “It’s because of a woman.”
“Ah,” you say.
“Doesn’t it always seem like it’s because of a woman?”
You’re not sure what to say.
“She’s married, this woman,” the man says, bumping into you again. “Her husband is an acquaintance. He’s a fashion photographer and he’s British, he goes to England a lot.” A pause, and then the man says, “So when he goes to England, I come out here and fuck his wife.”
“But he doesn’t know this?”
“If he did, I’d probably be dead.”
“He’s a violent man?”
“I don’t know. If it were my wife, I might be prone to homicide.”
“But you’re not afraid?” you ask.
“Of course I am. You have to be when you do things like this.”
“I guess the question is—is it worth it?”
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he says. “One day, six months ago, I was out here, he was in London, I went to visit his wife in their loft in Williamsburg, and the next thing I know, I have my cock in her ass. Sorry to speak so crudely here, guy, but let’s face the facts: that’s the way she likes it. Her position is that this is a frivolous affair and her husband is too damn British to screw her ‘that way.’” He leans in close, lowering his voice: “You know, she sings to me when I fuck her in the ass, and she calls me The Devil. Now, I have to say that I do feel like The Devil when I sodomize her and she yodels. And she has a wonderful voice, an angelic voice. You know, Charlotte Church material. So the answer to the question is: yes. Yes, it’s worth it.”
You nod.
The man says, “But I can’t help it. None of us can help it, can we? We have no choice, do we?”
“What’s that?”
“When it comes to women. We have to sleep with them. It’s a matter of biology.”
“Only if you believe the biologists.”
The L train lurches and slows down.
You look at him and he looks at you.
“Well,” you say.
“This is my stop,” the man says. He holds out his hand. “Hey, it was nice talking to you.”
“Yes,” you say, “it was.”
The man leaves. You find yourself imagining him with the married woman. They’re both naked. You watch them fuck. It turns you on.
THREE
Simon Schaffer, one of the senior partners at the firm, calls you into his office the minute you get to work; he’s wearing his famous big warm shit-eating grin and says, “Got one you’re going to love, Chip; something to really sink your teeth into. You know who Leonard Goodman is, right?”
That’s like asking if you know who Stephen King is. “I’ve seen the movies they make out of his books.”
“We have a new client filing suit against him. I want you to handle the case.”
You sit down.
He says, “We have a young woman, twenty-six, her name is Kelly O’Rourke, works as an assistant editor at Goodman’s publisher. Or did. Last month she flew down to Miami, to Goodman’s home there. Editing on his new book, et cetera. He wanted to work on his yacht—far away from his house, his wife, the three kids. On the boat, Mr. Goodman—well, let’s say Mr. Goodman took advantage of Ms. O’Rourke.”
“He raped her?”
“He wasn’t alone. A friend of his was piloting the boat.”
You ask, “They both raped her?”
Simon looks uncomfortable. “They had intercourse with her, and it was not consentual. She’s suing him, we’re her lawyers, and it’s going to be the most expensive fuck Leonard Goodman’s ever had.”
“What about criminal charges? Pending?”
“The Miami D.A. isn’t filing.”
“Really?” you say.
“If it were a college professor, some manager type, some average joe kind of guy,” Simon says, “sure. There’d be handcuffs, an arraignment, bail, and charges. But we’re talking about a best-selling author who gets thirty-five million dollar advances for every new book. We’re talking about a guy who has Brad Pitt and Christopher Walken starring in his movies. We’re talking about a guy who’s known to invest a lot of money into the local economy where he has his three homes; a guy with off-shore accounts; a guy who undoubtedly makes large donations to the Policeman’s Ball. You get what I mean, Chip.”
“Yeah.”
“The Miami D.A.’s excuse is there’s insufficient evidence. She went with the man on the boat willingly. She had a few drinks, and he’s saying she was very friendly. He says she initiated the sex. She says she did not. You see where this is going?”
“Yeah.”
“We’re not just suing Goodman. We’re suing his publisher too. When Ms. O’Rourke lodged a complaint with the Miami cops, and told her employer what happened, she was immediately terminated.”
“They fired her?” You have to laugh. “Stupid move.”
“Yes. And I’m sure they know they’d be sued, and I bet they’ll make a quick offer. But Ms. O’Rourke doesn’t want to settle, no matter what they put on the table. She wants to take this to court.”
“I see.”
“This is a sure thing, Chip; a nice money-maker.”
“Famous author, a lot of media coverage.”
“Just the sort of thing you like,” says Simon.
“When can I meet our client?”
“You have an appointment with her at four-thirty. I already booked it with your secretary.”
FOUR
Kelly O’Rourke is wearing black jeans, a purple tank top, and a brown leather jacket. She doesn’t wear make-up, as far as you can tell, except for a faint touch of dark pink to her lips. Her hair is long and brown, straight and a little greasy-looking. She has a coffee mug in her lap; you can smell the Gevalia brand that your secretary, Chandra, has given her.
“So you’re going to be my mouthpiece,” she says with a smile.
“Yes,” you say, “I am.”
“Why isn’t Mr. Schaffer going to be my guy?”
You sit behind your desk. “This kind of case is a specialty of mine. You do understand there’ll be a lot of media attention?”
“So I was told.”
“I’m good with these kind of cases.”
She nods. “Okay.”
“So how did you come to choose our firm?” you ask, because you didn’t ask Simon.
“A friend of a friend made the referral. She knows Mr. Schaffer.”
“I see.”
“She was dating him for a while. Her name is Joyce.”
“I see.” Simon is married. “Well, you went over what happened with Mr. Schaffer, but I’m afraid you need to go over it again with me. I need to know everything, and don’t leave anything out; if you leave anything out—no matter how insignificant you might think it is—that could hurt the case down the line.”
She sips at her coffee. “So you want all the sordid and dirty details.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Mr. Schaffer seemed uncomfortable when I went into said details, so I didn’t quite tell him everything. Just what he needed to know.”
“I need to know everything.”
“You don’t seem like the kind of person who flinches when it comes to the ugly,” she says.
You smile and go, “I’m jaded.”
She looks at her coffee.
“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
“I just met you two minutes ago,” she says, “and I’m about to tell you the intricate minutiae of being raped.”
“I’m sorry.”
She looks up. “What are you sorry about?”
You ask, “Is there anything I can do to...make you feel more at ease?”
“No,” Kelly O’Rourke says. “But...do you have something stronger around here to drink other than coffee?” She’s like, “I could use—a drink.”
“I do.” You get up and go to the liquor cabinet against the wall behind her; it’s under a set of old law books. You bring out three bottles: Stoli Vodka, Chivas Regal, and Wild Turkey. “What looks good to you?”
She raises her brows. “Everything I see before my eyes. How about a Chivas and water?”
You get out two glasses and make her drink, a Vodka and tonic for yourself.
She takes a long sip and says, “Thank you.”
You lean back in your chair. “Why don’t we start with some background information? We don’t need to get into—the details—right off.”
“Sure.”
“Where were you born?”
“Colorado.”
“Denver?”
“Boulder.”
“Where’d you go to school?”
She says, “I got my B.A. in California, at UCSD. Beautiful school in California, right on the beach. Masters at U. Colorado. I took the summer publishing program at Columbia. Publishing is what I wanted to get into. I wanted to be an editor, of course, or work some way with books. I love books, I have always loved books; I’ve been reading the things since I was six. Six years old. Anyway, I did the program, did some internships at small houses, and landed a job at the conglomerate. Now here I am. I realize it’s not a life full of action and adventure, Mr.—”
“You can call me Chip.”
“Chip, I like that. That isn’t your real first name, is it?”
“I wasn’t born with it. It’s a nickname; what everyone calls me.”
She leans forward and says, “Off the old block?”
“It’s a long story, Ms. O’Rourke.”
“Then you have to call me Kelly,” she says. “So, now that we’re on a first name basis...”
“So,” I say, “you’ve been working at this publishing company for how long?”
“Eighteen months. But I’m not working there anymore.”
“Right.”
“They canned me.”
“So I was told.”
There is an uneasy silence.
“Tell me about your job,” you say. “What were your duties?”
“An assistant editor is a grunt. You get all the shit work; everyone has to do it when they start out. You’re assigned to edit manuscripts some over-worked senior editor doesn’t have time to deal with. Or you edit contracted manuscripts acquired by editors who are no longer around the house. So you look through the slush pile, searching for something publishable, but you never find it. Or you’re stuck editing some piece of shit book some executive has purchased because the writer is a relative of a best-selling author that’s making millions for the company. Like, for instance, the powerful and famous Leonard Goodman.”
“Did this happen?”
“I did my best to edit a crappy little novel that Goodman’s niece penned. We put it out, it got bad reviews, it didn’t sell. Being Goodman’s favorite niece didn’t help market it. The conglomerate didn’t care about the loss.”
“Leonard Goodman,” you say, looking at your vodka tonic.
“Chip,” she says, “would you be so sweet and make me another drink?”
You need to refresh your own, too.
She goes, “Chivas is so smooth.”
“Yes,” you say.
“I like to drink,” she says, “but I won’t have another after this. Two is good for me. And it is still early in the day.”
You go to the bar and say, “Leonard Goodman is a household name. The books, the movies…”
“The money,” Kelly says. “Foreign rights, comic books, video games, product endorsements. Have you seen the soda and car commercials he’s done?”
“I can’t say that I have.”
“The asshole’s an institution.”
You hand her the new drink and sit back behind your desk. “Okay. The incident happened down in Florida. You were there to work with Mr. Goodman on his new novel, is this right?”
“Yes.”
“And how did this come to happen?”
Kelly sips her drink and crosses her legs and looks you in the eye. “You mean how did some lowly assistant get the honor of working with the rich and powerful Leonard Goodman? Why not an executive editor? The publisher himself? Good question, Chippy, good question. I thought—silly me, naïve me—that it was because I had, well, talent. That I was gifted at editing. And I am—I know my strengths and weaknesses.” She rolls her eyes. “I’d met Mr. Goodman on two occasions, briefly, when he was in New York, when he walked the halls of the conglomerate and everyone had the red carpet out and treated him…well, like royalty. Of course they did. His books pay many people’s salaries. There are people in the conglomerate who’d bend over and take it in the ass if Goodman wanted that. But not me,” she says.
“Not you.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
You nod.
She says, “So I took the trip down to Florida—like a good little flattered lowly editor—unaware of Goodman’s plans. This was all premeditated by him, believe me, hatched by Goodman and probably my former boss, but I’ll get to that. So I go down there, they give me a company credit card, I get a room at the Marriott, I’m all set. I’m not in the room for fifteen minutes and Goodman calls me. Great timing, I’m thinking. He goes: ‘Do you know what I’m thinking?’ I didn’t. He goes: ‘I’m thinking why work in that stuffy old house of mine? Let’s work on my boat. Do you like boats, Ms. O’Rourke?’ ‘Boats,’ I said, ‘I love boats.’ ‘I have a really nice one hundred foot yacht,’ he goes. I remembered reading about his yacht, in some magazine; even seeing pictures of it. I told him this. He said: ‘Good, good.’ He said any cab driver would know which marina to take me, where his boat was, the ‘Lisa Dean.’”
You write that down.
“Lisa Dean is the name of the heroine in his first bestseller, The Public Defender. Do you know what book I’m talking about?”
“Yes.”
“You read it?”
“I saw the movie.”
“The book is, well, better.”
“Aren’t they always?”
“No.” She sips her drink. “So I take a cab to his boat. He’s there, in shorts and a T-shirt—tanned, hair perfect you know: dark with tints of silver. Mr. Goodman himself! But he’s not alone. There’s this other guy there. Steve Wellman, dressed just like Goodman.”
FIVE
“A friend of his?” you ask.
“Yeah, a boat guy. Goodman said he didn’t know how to pilot his own yacht, but Wellman did.”
“How old was he?”
“Same age as Goodman, mid-forties,” she says. “Shorter hair, though. A slight bald spot. You know.”
You do know, and you’re glad you still have a full set of hair, being in your late thirties. “You possess a good eye for detail,” you tell her.
“I was told that was important; Mr. Schaffer told me that.” Shrugs.
“It is. What were you wearing?”
“A dress,” she says, “A white dress, spaghetti straps. A short dress. It was a hot, muggy day. I was going on a boat.”
You nod.
She’s like, “It was sunny Florida.”
You nod.
She asks, “Is that bad?”
You say, “No.”
She goes, “Anything else? My shoes? Was I wearing underwear?”
“Go on with your story.”
“Should I cut to the chase?” Her voice is hard. “How they both held me down and fucked me?”
“They immediately did this?” you ask.
“No,” she says. “They took the boat out first.”
“Just tell me everything, in order.”
“We took the boat out,” she says. “Steve Wellman was behind the wheel, Leonard Goodman was narrating the journey. He was standing very close to me, to my body.”
“What do you mean ‘narrating’?”
“Telling me how long he had the yacht, what it was like for him when he first bought it and took it out; what it was like to be able to own a yacht. ‘I used to be poor,’ he said, ‘living in a one-bedroom apartment, working on my first novel, married with one child and another on the way, surviving from paycheck to paycheck.’ He used to work at a 7-11,” she laughs. “Goodman is one of those very few, very miraculous success yarns. A rags to riches story. Anyway, there we were: the boat was heading out, Goodman was telling me how every day he knew he’d been blessed with fortune.”
“Was this a line?”
“I think he was sincere. I mean, well, I guess he was trying to impress me, and you know what? He was.”
“Was he seducing you?”
“This is important?”
“Very.”
“He’s an attractive man, but I was trying to keep things professional.”
“’Trying’?”
“I’ve gotten into trouble before,” she says, “mixing business with pleasure.”
“You have to understand, if Goodman was trying to seduce you, and he felt, in any way, that you were receptive to his advances…”
“He was trying to get me drunk.”
“Oh?”
“Offering me drink after drink.”
“Did you accept?”
“Yes. I’m not a lightweight, Chip. I can handle my booze. Goodman started by offering me a beer.”
“What kind?”
“Heineken.”
“Bottle or can?”
“This is important?”
You say, “Every little detail is.”
“Of course I know this,” she says.
“Of course,” you say.
“Bottle,” she says. “A nice green bottle. Two, in fact. Then he asked me if I’d like something stronger. He said he had a full bar. So I had what you’re having right now.”
You stare at the lime in your glass, like a little boat on the water. “Vodka tonic.”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Two. Then—well, he ran out of tonic. So I had a vodka and gingerale next.”
“That’s a lot of alcohol,” you say.
“Then he ran out of gingerale, so I had a greyhound: vodka and grape fruit juice. I’m not a fan of grape fruit juice, but I was pretty buzzed at this point.”
“I’d think you’d be quite drunk.”
“You’d think wrong, Chip. I was buzzed. I told you I can handle my booze.”
“I would be drunk,” you say.
“Well,” she says, “you don’t drink like I do.”
You nod, touching an ice cube with your index finger.
“I’m getting the feeling this doesn’t sound good,” she says.
“It could go either way. One, you were drunk—excuse me, very buzzed—and lost your inhibitions. Two, you were drunk or buzzed or whatever, and you were taken advantage of.”
“Believe me, it was the latter.”
“I believe you.”
“Would a jury?” she asks, leaning forward.
“Continue with your story.”
“The yacht was taken out a ways and then stopped. Steve Wellman joined us at the bar.”
“To drink?”
“What else?”
“What did he have?”
“He kept to margaritas. He was good at making them. On the rocks and salted.”
You sigh. “You had one.”
She gives you a look. “I had one, just one. One.”
You ask, “How much, all in all, did you drink?”
“That was it. There was something in that margarita.” She says, “A mickey.”
“Mickey?” you say incredulously.
“Isn’t that what they call it? Something was in that drink, because after I drank that drink, I slipped and fell. Someone caught me. I felt very weird—I was aware of what was happening, but I had no control of my body.”
“You don’t think it was all the alcohol?”
She shakes her head and goes, “No way.”
“The effect didn’t feel like—“
“They slipped me something,” she says. “They both kept kissing me. Kissing me all over. They took my clothes off. I was naked. I was thinking: ‘Why am I naked when I don’t want to be naked?’ They took me into a cabin. They placed me on a bed.”
“And?”
“And then they fucked me.”
SIX
“This is awkward for both of us,” you say, “but I need you to continue.”
She nods.
“This is okay?”
“Well,” she says, “can I have just one more drink?”
You get up and make her another. Hell, you make myself another.
“Goodman raped me first,” she says with a straight face. “Wellman was holding my arms down, but he must have realized my body was complete jello so he stopped. When Goodman was done, Wells took his turn. Then Goodman had a second go-around, and so did Wells.”
“What was Wells doing when Goodman…raped you, and vice versa?”
“Watching,” she says. “Drinking, laughing. Watching.” She looks at the wall.
“Laughing,” you say, writing that down.
“I remember Wellman saying this: ‘That’s some good pussy.’ And Goodman laughed and said yeah or something and then they both laughed together.”
You ask, “What happened after they did this? How did they act? What did they say?”
“I don’t know. I passed out.”
“You passed out.”
“Everything went black and the next thing I knew it was late in the morning and I was in bed, the same bed, the same bed in the cabin. But I was dressed. I felt like shit. I remembered what had happened. I think they were expecting I wouldn’t.”
“You think?”
“I went top deck and there they both were. They were acting like—well, they were acting like I’d drank too much and just passed out and that was that. ‘Want some coffee?’ Goodman offered. ‘Sit down, sit down,’ he said, ‘how do you feel?’”
“Wait,” you say. “Is there any possibility that after you blacked out, they continued to rape you?”
She shrugs. “It’s possible; I have no idea. But I can tell you this—that morning, they were both keeping their distance from me. They kept joking about how I passed out, but they were nervous. ‘Oh we all do it from time to time,’ Wellman said. I think they were fishing for any indication that I knew what they’d done. I wanted to confront them, believe me, but what good would that do? We were out on the water. I just wanted to get away, I wanted to get back to land. I told them I was feeling pretty sick; I said I had some medication in my hotel room and I needed to get it. They were both agreeable so they took the boat back to dock.”
“Just like that.”
“Well, Goodman did say, ‘We need to work on the manuscript.’ I said I’d come back after I went to the hotel. But I didn’t go back, of course.”
“Of course.”
“And he knew—Goodman knew very goddamn well that I wouldn’t be back.”
“They were acting—?”
“Worried,” she says.
“Worried.”
“Why wouldn’t they be worried?”
“So then what did you do?”
She says, “I cried.”
You nod.
“Then I packed my bags and flew back to New York. I wanted to get the hell out of Miami. I went to my apartment and slept for—I didn’t get out of bed for several days.”
“Where do you live in the city?”
“I live in New Jersey. I can’t afford the city.”
“So you didn’t report this to the police?”
“No. In Miami, no—I mean, I did a week later.”
“Why a week?”
“When I went to work, I expected to get shit. I was expecting angry phone calls to my boss from Goodman. You know, why did I abandon my assignment.”
“That wasn’t the case?”
“I got called into the managing editor’s office. Her name is Miranda Smith. She had a smile on her face. She asked me: ‘How was Miami? Did you get any sun? You don’t look tan.’ I told her Miami was all right. She said: ‘Leo Goodman called and said what happened.’ This took me by surprise. I asked what and Miranda said: ‘That his new novel wasn’t ready and needed extensive rewrites. He says you made him aware of this. It takes a lot of courage to tell someone like Leo Goodman his book isn’t ready,’ and she leaned forward like we were sharing a secret and went, ‘although we all know Leo could have improved all his books.’ The gist of this is that Goodman is such a big money-maker, he helps pay my salary, he helps pay everyone’s paychecks, and anyone else wouldn’t have had the guts to say to him that his book needs work. Blah blah blah.
“You see, Goodman covered his tracks before I could blow the proverbial whistle on him.
“And that pissed me off, that really pissed me off. I tried not to show it in front of the managing editor. I said something like: ‘Well, yeah’—I don’t know what I said. I left Miranda’s office wanting to kill Goodman. That bastard, that fucking bastard. He never wanted my editorial advice, he never wanted me to actually work on his manuscript. Like I said—he’d seen me before, and he had it in his mind he wanted to fuck me. That was his only interest. Fine, I thought. He wanted to fuck me, I was going to fuck him. I went back to Miranda’s office and I was determined. She looked at me and I said: ‘Leonard Goodman assaulted me.’ I thought she would be sympathetic. She was a woman, after all, and I noted some feminist tendencies in her. But when it came to feminism verses income, what do you think she chose?”
“She didn’t care?” you say. “She didn’t believe you?”
“Her face got pale and she just sat there when I told her what happened—and I told her everything.”
“Just as you’ve told me.”
“Pretty much. But she was thinking of money. If the company were to lose Goodman, the company would lose a hell of a lot of cash flow. Not to mention the scandal. And yes, I do know what a scandal this is going to cause when we sue the bastard.
“Miranda said this to me: ‘Let me take this under advisement and I’ll get back to you.’
“The next day, I was called into Nigel Randall’s office. The CEO and Publisher. There was also this man in Randall’s office—Gregory Bennett, the general counsel. I’d seen him around, so I knew who he was even before Mr. Randall told me. So this is when I got fired. That’s not the way Randall put it, of course. He babbled something about fiscal cut-backs, overall low book sales. The usual. He offered me a severance package, a very substantial one of $15,000.”
“Not a common severance offer?”
“Not for an assistant that’s for sure. The lawyer, Bennett, gave me a piece of paper with legal mumbo-jumbo—no offense here—to sign. It basically said I held the conglomerate and all its officers and subsidiaries and so on free of any liabilities during the period I was employed. They wanted to get rid of me and they wanted to pay me off, Chip. I knew what was going on here, and I told them so. I said: ‘Do you think fifteen grand is going to make me forget what your pet star author did?’ Mr. Bennett said: ‘Do you have another amount in mind?’ I said they weren’t going to buy my silence, I said I was going to sue, I told them to fuck off, and I walked out of there.
“The first thing I did was call the Miami Police Department to report the rape. They said I had to come back to Florida and make the report in person. So I did just that.”
“You went back to Miami?”
“I had to. They took the report. They said they’d contact me. I returned to—New Jersey. I waited a week. I called the Miami Police. They referred me to the District Attorney’s office. I was told no charges were being filed. I was told that the cops and someone at the D.A.’s office interviewed both Goodman and Wellman and they, of course, naturally, denied it all. It was their word against mine, but I know what happened, and you know what happened—Goodman is famous, he has influence down there, he got the cops and the D.A. to look the other way.”
You look at your drink.
“I want to go to trial,” she says. She places her empty glass on your desk. “I’m not going to take any of their offers, no matter how much money. Before I left that meeting with Randall and his corporate lawyer, I told them I would not be bought. I told them I’d been violated and I was going to make a stink about it and take all those assholes to court. Tell me we’re taking them to court, Chiperoo.”
“If you want to take them to court,” you say, “then that’s where we’re going.”
“I’m the client here,” she says.
“Yes you are. But I have to forewarn you, Kelly—yes, there will be a lot of media about this. It’ll get ugly. They’ll attack you, they might even attack me. This could turn out to be a long and aggravating battle.”
“I expect it to be a war.”
SEVEN
Simon Schaffer comes into your office forty-five minutes after Kelly O’Rourke leaves. He has a stuffed file folder in his hand.
He says, “So what do you think?”
“I think she’s dangerous.”
“Not the girl, the case.”
“The girl is the case.”
“What are you telling me here, Chip?”
“I’m saying I think she saw an opportunity to get out of her low-paying job and make enough green to set her for life. She had sex with a famous author and now she’s crying rape and she’s going to milk the guy to keep her quiet.”
“You don’t really believe that,” he says, “do you?”
“That’s what Goodman’s lawyers are going to say.”
“C’mon, man, we have a darn good case here.”
“Yes, we do.”
“Look, even if our client is bullshitting us, Goodman’s going to pay hush money. He has a wife and kids—he has a reputation and he won’t want this to go to press.”
“So we’re helping with blackmail?”
“We have no idea if what she says is true. We’re just representing her.” Simon doesn’t sound very sure of himself. “Goodman will keep making offers the closer we get to trial. You know what I think will happen? Here’s the scenario, and I’m seldom wrong on these things: we send an intent to sue letter. They’ll come back with an early settlement offer. We reject it. We file suit. They make another offer. We reject it. A little bit of info gets leaked to the press and they get worried. They make a third offer and again we refuse. There’s some motions, a demurrer or strike, we do some discovery, some investigating, a deposition or two, and then they make an offer that Ms. O’Rourke cannot possibly turn down. The end.”
“In the meantime, they dig dirt up on my client and get ugly about it.”
“So it gets ugly,” he says; “we can get ugly too.”
You nod.
He places the file on your desk. “Background info on Leonard Frederick Goodman. Just some Internet and newspaper clippings I pulled.”
“Thanks, Simon.”
He has a devious smile on his face. He stands up and says, “Godspeed.”
You say, “So Ms. O’Rourke—Kelly—told me a friend of hers referred her to us?”
“That’s right.” He’s nervous.
“Someone you know.”
“Someone I know, yes.” He nods.
“Can I ask who?”
“Ms. O’Rourke didn’t say?”
“She said it was someone you were—dating.”
“Did date,” says Simon. “Chip, you have always been a man of discretion.”
“I still am.”
“Remain so.”
EIGHT
After Simon leaves, you make yourself a cup of instant coffee and sit down with the “dossier” on Leonard Goodman.
Just as Kelly told you, Goodman didn’t hit it big until his novel The Public Defender—it spent several months on the best-seller lists and was made into a successful movie. That was ten years ago. You remember going to see the movie with your ex-wife, Gina. Before all this happened, Goodman was a struggling writer living in Islip, Long Island; he’d published two novels and a collection of poetry to very little attention.
“I tried teaching at colleges,” Goodman is quoted in a photocopied interview. “I couldn’t stand the academic atmosphere, run by a bunch of bad writers and idiots. I worked at a convenience store, my wife had the corporate job in Manhattan that paid most of the bills. She believed in me, she knew one day I’d be rich and take care of our family. We just had to wait for that day.”
He’s been married to a woman, Beth Coombs-Goodman, since they were both twenty-two. They had two sons before his success, and a daughter after.
Goodman then wrote one blockbuster after another, ranging from thrillers, horror stories, and military adventures that gave Tom Clancey a run for his money. All the books have been made into movies; and I’ve seen most of them, and liked them. There are video games made from some of his books, and action figures out of some of his characters. There are fan clubs and even one critical book on his themes and motifs published by the University of South Carolina Press.
Goodman is an outspoken man. He’s a favorite on many national and local TV and radio shows.
“Charismatic” is a word that comes up a lot to describe him.
He’s been approached for product endorsements, and he’s done them.
The man’s stinking rich, you’re telling yourself.
He has three homes in the United States: a condo on the Upper East Side, a seventeen-room house in Miami and a ten-room house in La Jolla, California. He has a big yacht, which is sometimes in Florida, sometimes in southern California.
The yacht gets you. It’s always been a dream of yours to have a boat—not one that big; a small but comfortable boat you can sail around the world in when you retire. You grew up in the Nevada desert, the ocean has always been a mysterious thing. You find yourself wishing you were stinking rich and could run away from the world and work.
One news item from two years ago—a minor actress in L.A. filed a paternity suit against him. She claimed she had a brief affair with Goodman while she had a small role in one of his movies. He denied the affair. The suit was dropped when the actress had a miscarriage, and that was the end of that.
You have a headache from drinking too early in the day. Your secretary left an hour ago. You draft a letter to the general counsel of Goodman’s publisher, stating that your client is intending to sue both Goodman and the publishing company; it will be done by the end of the week.
Perhaps we can discuss the matter first?
You drop the letter into the mailbox ten minutes before the last pick-up as you walk to your apartment in the West Village.
NINE
You live five blocks from the office, so you always walk; the walk in the morning and the walk at the end of the business day are about the only exercise you really get. Mornings—the mornings you wake up at your own place, which is most mornings—you always purchase an iced chai tea at the convenient coffee kiosk; evenings, you usually pick up some beer at the deli around the corner of the apartment building. You don’t feel like a beer tonight; you get a three cheese sandwich; there’s too much vodka in your blood, from today and last night.
You’re certainly not expecting your ex-wife Gina to be waiting outside the building. But there she is. She’s wearing a heavy coat and a floppy hat and black horn-rimmed glasses. She looks up at you with round brown eyes and says, “Chip.”
You say, “What are you doing here, Gina?”
“You’re late,” she says.
“What are you doing here?”
She sighs and says, “What the hell do you think I’m doing here? I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Gina,” you say.
“Your doorman wouldn’t let me up.”
“No,” you say. Pieter, your Russian doorman, once made the mistake of letting her in. She still had the key. She was waiting for you inside the apartment and almost gave you a heart attack, thinking there was someone there ready to do you harm. Sometimes you get threats in your line of work—you sue people, and that pisses people off.
“We need to talk,” Gina says.
“No we don’t.”
“Please,” she goes, “please.”
You hate it when she begs, because you know it is serious, and she knows how to reach into your well-hidden heart. The two of you were husband and wife for eight years.
She looks at you with those large brown puppy dog eyes and you know she will persist, you know you cannot resist her.
“This better be quick,” you say.
“Oh Chip,” she says.
Pieter is alarmed when you enter the foyer with the ex-wife. You tell him everything is okay. You and Gina take the elevator to the ninth floor. Inside the apartment, she says, “I’ll always think of this as home. The air smells the same in here, like it did years ago—it has the smell of home.”
She’s living with her mother on Staten Island, as far as you know. You haven’t seen or heard from her in five months; now here she is, and she knows all the right words to get to you.
You want her to leave.
She sits on the couch in the living room and looks up at you.
“Would you like something to drink?” you ask her in defeat.
“A beer would be nice,” she says.
You don’t know if you have any beer and you’re glad you didn’t pick any up. Beer and Gina never mix well. You go to the kitchen and look in the fridge and there are two Rolling Rocks waiting. You decide to have one, this way you can tell her there isn’t any more. You open both bottles, return to the living room, and hand Gina one of the Rolling Rocks.
“Chip,” she says after taking a swig, “I feel just awful.”
She always says that to open conversations you don’t want to have. Your weakness is that you won’t turn her away, you won’t tell her to go back to her mother’s, you won’t tell her not to talk. You are almost helpless when you thirty-eight-year-old former spouse says, “I’m lonely, Chip.”
And that’s what she says.
“Chip?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you hear me?”
You nod.
She says, “It hurts inside.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Do you know? I don’t think that you do.”