“I assume you’re referring to the emails our client relied on when deciding to invest his money, representing that his investment would be allocated across four movies, with budgets of no more than $5 million each?”
“Sure. Those emails.”
“We now know your clients inflated the budgets of at least three of the four movies.”
I held up the first handout.
“This is Exhibit A, with a breakdown of what we understand the final budget to have been forTokyo Summer, in addition to a copy of the tax-credit filing with New York state.”
Damian’s associate, a petite brunette in a pale-pink pantsuit, leaned in and whispered something to Damian.
“Do you need the room?” I asked.
He shook his head. “You can continue.”
“You’ll see at the bottom of the chart is the budget number forTokyo Summer, which we uncovered by working backward once we obtained the tax-credit filing from the state.”
“Reminder that a court is unlikely to be sympathetic with a fact that you ‘backed into.’”
“I’ll let you read through Exhibit B and C.”
Leo gave me a stealth thumbs-up as they skimmed the next few pages.
Damian looked unimpressed. “Continue.”
“Respectfully, we know your clients doubled the budgets. If forced to file a lawsuit, we’re going to subpoena all of their records, and the line-item budgets will be the first things we demand to see. And we’re certain the documents will confirm that your clients bloated the budgets with fees for themselves, overpaid actors, used budgeted funds for frivolous Cannes parties. Then we’ll subpoena each movie’s financial statements, and we’ll know exactly how Sterling’s money evaporated into thin air.”
He appeared unmoved. “So file a lawsuit, and see what you find,” he said flatly.
“As I said earlier, we’ll be alleging fraud, along with embezzlement, negligent misrepresentation, breach of fiduciary duty, and unfair business practices. We’ll be seeking compensatory damages of at least $20 million, and another $20 million in punitive damages for fraudulently inducing our client to invest millions and knowingly devaluing ourclient’s investment, foreclosing any possibility of recouping even a fraction of the millions he invested.”
Damian smiled politely and stood up, signaling the meeting was over. “I hope you’ve got the complaint ready to go.”
I went in for a firm handshake. “We plan to file at five o’clock a week from today, unless we hear from you otherwise.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The following Tuesday, I was drowning in documents for the Lincoln Center matter when I got an email from Damian Entwhistle’s secretary saying he wanted to schedule a call.
“Holy shit. What if it worked?” I asked, my voice too loud for our small office.
“What if what worked?” Charlie asked.
“The film fund’s lawyer wants to set a call.”
“Rock and roll,” he said, reaching over the desk to give me a high five.
I forwarded the email to Leo. He responded within minutes that he was slammed with a deal closing but to take the call and report back.
Damian’s office sent a dial-in for 6 p.m. I went back to tagging documents.
At 5:45, Charlie started blasting “The Final Countdown” by Europe.
“You’re such a nerd,” I laughed.
“Are you gearing up for victory?”
“I’m debating if I want to take this call with you in the room.”
