There was of course another way this could leak. But I didn’t dare mention it. Jack already knew about this other potential loose end, and I had to assume he had it handled.
Jack looked up at me with weary eyes, then said something that surprised me. “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?”
I didn’t answer right away. What we were doing was morally and criminally wrong, we both knew that. So what is he really asking me?
I was careful with my answer. “I think what happened is a terrible tragedy, and that we are doing the best we can under difficult circumstances,” I said. “Taking aggressive steps to control the damage is in everyone’s best interests,” I added.
And then he looked at his hands and said, “As long as we don’t get caught.”
If I believed in God, I might have said, God willing. Luckily, I don’t. Because if I did, I’d have to accept that we were probably both going to hell.
CHAPTER 8
I scooped up the paperwork and tucked it in my briefcase. All the i’s were dotted and the t’s crossed, but in the end, it really didn’t matter. Our contract was only a Band-Aid on a deep and fragile wound that would have to be tended to carefully and indefinitely. The statute of limitations on vehicular manslaughter was only six years in California, but the unearthing of this crime could create problems way beyond that. Yes, it was a crime, I had to call it what it was. Not the hitting—that was an accident—but the running. There were layers to this incident that went beyond Jack and me, things that could unravel whole lives. I understood Jack’s reasons for trying to cover it up. But that didn’t mean I agreed with them.
I phoned Jack to tell him the deal was closed. He was pleased but not wholly relieved. I reminded him that, at this point, Holly and Savannah were as guilty in the cover-up as we were. For better or worse, we were in this together. To come forward after signing the NDA would cost them literally everything they had. That, of course, was the whole point in doing it.
Driving home, I thought about how it came to be that I, a nice kid from New Hampshire who played lacrosse and graduated summa cum laude from Yale, came to be a fixer. I had a job my former classmates could understand—personal lawyer—but if they knew what I actually did, they would be appalled.
In my defense, I didn’t fully understand the job when I took it. I knew I didn’t want to work at a big firm, riding the same elevator to a top floor office every day, competing with other associates to bill a shit ton of hours. Or clerk for a stuffy judge, like some of my classmates were doing. I was young, and craved a lifestyle. After a lifetime of long winters, I loved the idea of California. I told myself it would be temporary—a break from the cold, an adventure in La La Land. With my mother gone, and my brother wrapped up in his kids and his God, I was already adrift—why not float in an ocean of beautiful people under perpetually sunny skies? In the beginning, I wasn’t exclusive to Jack and sometimes serviced other clients—moguls merging companies, partners unpartnering, a real estate tycoon or two—but Jack’s needs slowly took over my whole life. I hadn’t even had a serious girlfriend since the party nail gal, that’s how busy he kept me. I barely even had time to be lonely.
Jack had been involved with minor scandals before—alleged inappropriate contact with a personal assistant, an alliance with a corrupt politician, a shady real estate deal—but this was by far the worst. It was my job to fix, not to judge—today’s world had enough judges. A highly visible person like Jack lived under a microscope. His every move, his words, even his outfits were scrutinized and shit upon. I had compassion for him. If I didn’t, I couldn’t do my job.
Technically, the Holly Kendrick ordeal was over. We made a deal, she pledged her silence in exchange for riches beyond her wildest dreams. We should have all breathed a big sigh of relief. But we didn’t. Because deep down we all knew this was just the beginning.
ANDY
Three months ago
“He said he was really sorry,” Laura said when I finally called her back. I didn’t want to be pissy when I talked to my agent, so I had waited a day, until my bad mood wore off. “He still wants to meet with you,” she insisted. “In fact, in the end this might be a good thing, he might feel like he owes you one.”
I was dubious that one of the most powerful people in Hollywood would ever feel like he owed me anything, but I kept that to myself. “Right. OK,” was all I could muster. I wondered why I was getting a second chance. Maybe the someone better didn’t work out?