Sedona Law 5 by Dave Daren (e book reader android .TXT) 📗

Right after she finished speaking, the door to the office slammed open. To my surprise, in walked The Count, and I searched my memory for his real name.

“Hello, Alfred,” I rose and shook his hand, “good to see you.”

“Likewise, Mr. Irving,” he greeted me with a quick bow. The Count wore a full French Revolution era costume, complete with a cape.

“Please, call me Henry,” I said and motioned toward a chair in front of my desk. “What can I do for you?”

“I must relay that a most grave and terrible injustice has been committed against me,” he intoned.

His voice rose and fell like a stage soliloquy, and I wondered why he wasn’t directing anything.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said as I crossed my legs and leaned back in my chair. “What is the nature of the injustice?”

With a grand flourish, he pulled a manila file folder out of his robe and handed it to me.

“What is this?” I asked as I took the folder.

“This,” he said, “is my written legal agreement with Steele Productions. As you may know, I have given Jerry Steele permission to adapt my literary work, An American Revolutionary Tale, into a work of film.”

“And I take it you aren’t happy,” I said as I skimmed the documents.

The Count rose from the chair and slowly paced the room as if in deep thought. He tapped his fingertips together and searched the ceiling, and then he spoke with full stage projection, diaphragm breaths and all.

“Steele Productions has taken my magnum opus, the work I spent seven years researching, and has attempted to turn it into a tawdry affair that only vaguely resembles the original work.”

I nodded. “Steele Productions is not known for its ethical treatment of subjects.”

“On the contrary,” The Count extrapolated, “Mr. Steele assured me he would treat my novel with the utmost of care and precision.”

“Uh-huh,” I muttered as I read through the rest of the file.

“Herein lies the injustice,” he cried, and he gripped the back of the chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. “This cannot be done! This will not be done! This is an injustice! A heresy! Not just against me, but against the American people and the history of this country!”

I stroked my chin and listened to his monologue, half expecting some sort of Shakespearean aside.

“Mr. Irving,” he finished dramatically, “we must take this matter before a judge to say what he will.”

I nodded slowly. “You’re saying you want to sue Steele Productions?”

“Precisely.” The Count sat back down, and he frowned and then just looked sad.

“Unfortunately,” I said as I looked over the contract, “whoever did this contract knew what they were doing.”

The Count’s expression fell further.

“You’ve signed over all of the rights to the book to Steele Productions,” I went on.

“No,” he protested. “No, it can’t be.”

I nodded. “I’m sorry, you should have had a lawyer look over it before you signed it. Legally, you have no rights. He can do whatever he wants.”

“No, no, no,” The Count gestured frantically toward the page, “look again, surely there is some loophole, something that can be done. That can’t be right. It just can’t be.”

“You received the check mentioned here, right?” I pointed to a line on the contract.

“Yes,” he said, “but that was at the start of the project. Mr. Steele assured me I would be involved artistically each step of the way.”

“Unfortunately,” I sighed, “according to this, the check was all you were to ever get out of it. Any artistic involvement you may or may not have is solely at the director’s discretion.”

“But you don’t understand, Mr. Irving!” he cried. “I spent seven years of my life researching my book. I even stayed in England for six months to research the American Revolution, auditing courses with an Oxford historian. This … this is my life’s work, really. I doubt I shall have another great work as this.”

“I understand,” I nodded, “you’re passionate about it, and you have every right to take pride in the work you created. But the contract is clear.”

“But, surely,” he said with perfect stage elocution, “surely there must be something we can do. We must fight this contract. It is wrong, and unjust.”

“The only thing you can do now,” I offered, “is to play nice and ask Steele Productions to drop the project. I doubt he will, but at this point, that’s the only real option you have.”

The Count’s face contorted. “This man cheated me out of a lifetime of work!” Then he grabbed the paperwork and looked me in the eye. “I say to you, good day, sir.”

“Good day, Mr. Dumont,” I sighed.

The Count left the office with a flourish, and as soon as he was out of view, I turned to Vicki.

“Well, that was something,” I said with a quirked eyebrow.

“I feel bad for him,” she frowned, “Jerry really is screwing him over.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, “he is. I really wish Alfred had brought me the contract before he signed it. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the city leaders drop out of the film.”

“Geez,” AJ said, “I literally got caught in the middle with those two last night. Jerry wants to rewrite all the battle scenes with World War I weaponry to reconcile with the period shift, and Alfred or The Count or whatever that guy’s name is, totally lost his shit. His face turned bright red, and I thought we were going to have to call either an ambulance or the cops.”

“Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,” I mused as I quoted Hamlet.

“You know,” Vicki said, “Shakespeare was a fraud, too. He stole all his work from all the other writers in the theatre.”

I laughed. “Thank you, Landon.”

We all laughed. Landon was our