AFTER SHE LEFT, Valentino called Smith Oldfield with the university’s legal department and made an appointment for the next morning. Then he went home, turned off his cell, and unplugged his landline. His sleep was uninterrupted, but he dreamed of close encounters with speeding automobiles, cunning old men with pliant memories, and slinky vamps luring callow young men silently to their doom.
In the morning, Oldfield, ever the gentleman, opened the door of his office personally to admit him. The New England–born attorney, who traced his ancestors back to the Mayflower (not that he was ever crass enough to mention it), rarely kept anyone waiting for long.
The office might have been constructed in Boston and transported across the country to a soundstage, all ready for Lewis Stone or Sidney Blackmer or Louis Calhern to cloud the air inside with phrases like habeas corpus, amicus curiae, voire dire, and actus reus; terminology that Kyle Broadhead liked to dismiss as “body-snatching from linguistic graveyards, sanctioned under the law.” It was all leather and oak, cream-colored bindings, fox hunts and diplomas.
The lawyer, tailored comfortably in well-seasoned wool, stepped to a paneled cabinet. “Coffee? I promise I can improve upon the supermarket blend they serve in the break rooms.” He swung open a cabinet containing a black-and-silver Keurig coffeemaker and something else that caught the visitor’s eye: a sleek gold statuette a little over a foot tall, with what looked like a strip of black electrical tape masking the engraving on its base. Oldfield took the appliance out quickly and swung the door shut.
“Was that an Oscar?”
The attorney placed the Keurig on a credenza and plugged it in, taking more care than seemed necessary for the operation. “I’d rather you hadn’t seen that. My office cleaner failed to put it back in its proper place. I can’t tell you whose name is on it.”
“I didn’t think it was yours. I doubt the bar association would look kindly on a lawyer winning an award for acting.”
“I performed a service for a friend. I told him he didn’t owe me anything, but he insisted I hold the, er, item until he can pay me for my time and expenses.”
“Do you think he will?”
“Yes. And not just because he wants to put that thing back on his mantel.”
“May I ask how long it’s been?”
Oldfield’s face was a blank wall. “He’ll be back for it.”
There was no use pursuing the subject. This particular officer of the court would carry a confidence to the grave.
Valentino declined coffee with thanks. Oldfield looked disappointed; clearly he was proud of his brew, and the other regretted his decision. They repaired to a cluster of deep club chairs and sat down facing each other. Everything about the host, from his crisp gray temples to the shell-rim glasses he held in his lap, suggested that he’d made the transcontinental trip along with the smoky Ivy League furnishings.
Valentino knew all this for set-dressing. Oldfield was as thoroughly grounded in show-business psychology as anyone else in town. The opposing counsel who on first impression expected him to enter the ring with reticence, reserve, and old-school decorum was quickly disillusioned. He was a tiger in tweed.
“How is Miss Goodman?” he said, once the nature of Valentino’s business was explained. “She should have recovered from her injuries by now. I envy you young people your resiliency.”
“She’s resilient; some might say she’s positively reptilian. She grows a new limb for every one lost.” Valentino handed him the court order.
Oldfield donned his readers and unfolded the stapled-together sheets. He read them with close attention, as if he were alone in the room. For all his genteel manners, when it came to the nuts and bolts of his profession, he made no concessions to cheery optimism: His clients were left to draw what they might from his “Hms” and head-shakes. To all appearances, were he a physician studying a patient’s chart, he was preparing to deliver a fatal diagnosis.
Finally he refolded the papers and his glasses. Cleared his throat. Valentino prevented himself from leaning forward only with effort.
“I’m afraid it’s more than a nuisance suit,” Oldfield said.
“That comes as no surprise. A five-car pileup on the freeway is a nuisance. Teddie’s a natural disaster.”
“Hm. If Supernova is indeed in sole ownership of the RKO library—and based on what I know of the judge who signed it, I cannot imagine anything has been overlooked—the corporation is within its rights to enjoin you from exhibiting the property in question. To do so would constitute an assumption of ownership.”
“But I do own it. Or rather, UCLA does now.”
“In a case involving intellectual property, to possess is not to own.”
“Can we fight this?”
“One can always fight; that’s the spirit behind the rule of law. The letter is something else again. I could not counsel pursuing the matter with any assurance that the result would not be as it stands at present.”
Valentino nodded. He felt as if he’d been given a straight answer to the question, “How long have I got?” He rose and held out his hand for the papers. “Thank you, Mr. Oldfield.”
“Perhaps you could meet with Mr. Turkus and come to some kind of terms outside the legal arena.”
“Doubtful. Teddie made it clear he intends to prevent the film from ever being shown to anyone, anywhere, under any circumstances.”
“That seems extreme.”
“I can’t fathom it myself. Our entire history has been one of us determined to beat the other to a property and then bringing it out in the public arena. This new wrinkle has me scratching my head.”
“To put it mildly.” The lawyer gave him back the court order. His expression was illegible. Years of experience with judges and juries had gone into the construction of that poker face. “It’s none of my business, I suppose; but assuming you’ll take my advice and avoid going to court, may I ask what you intend to do?”
Valentino hesitated. “If I answered that question, could I be assured it won’t leave this room?”
Oldfield frowned. “Client confidentiality doesn’t extend to committing an illegal act before it takes place. I cannot withhold prior knowledge of a crime.”
“Thank you, Counselor.” Valentino shook his hand again and let himself back out into a morning that anywhere but in southern California would pass as twilight.