Casting looked alarmed for the first time. "Attention?" he asked. "What do you mean by that?"
"Media attention of course," Pauline said. "There doesn't seem to be any sort of non-disclosure clause in your standard industry contract, does there? We'll talk to every reporter we can find and tell them all about how much money you're making and how much the band is making. We'll give them copies of the band's quarterly reports. We'll tell them about the drug pushing and the whoremongering and the assigned housing and the spies. We'll tell them every dirty little secret the band has been witness to from the time they signed to the present."
"We'll get a gag order," Frowley said. "They won't be able to say anything."
"That might work," Pauline replied with a shrug. "I'd give you about a fifty-fifty chance of Remington granting such a request in order to avoid contaminating the jury pool. Remington is kind of a wild card in this whole thing, wouldn't you say? But even if he did grant a gag order, it will only be in effect until the jury returns a verdict in the initial trial. We're fully prepared to lose the initial trial anyway. Once the appeal process begins there is no more jury pool to worry about and the gag order would no longer be in effect. We'll be free to start spouting our mouths off to anyone about anything we want. The public will be outraged at the way you people operate. They'll demand reform. And by the time the case gets dropped on our good friend Rose Bird's desk, she'll probably be quite inclined to hear it."
Casting was now visibly worried by what he was hearing. "Frowley," he said. "What would happen if the Supreme Court ruled in favor of Intemperance? What exactly would that mean for us?"
"Nothing," Frowley said. "She's trying to blow smoke up our asses. There is no way any of that will happen."
"He may be right, Mr. Casting," Pauline said. "I'll be the first to admit that lots of things could go wrong with my little plan. The Supreme Court might refuse to hear it. Their composition might change to something a little more conservative before the case makes it to them. Rose Bird and her cohorts are all up for confirmation by the voters in 1986 and the people of California are a bit peeved with them regarding their death penalty rulings. In fact, my own law firm is contributing a fair amount of money to a campaign to remove those three from the bench. Their business related rulings are as infuriating to the state's large corporations as their death penalty rulings are to the average law and order type. So yes, there are many things that could derail us before the case reaches this level. But if the court does hear the case and it does rule in favor of Intemperance..." She smiled. "Well, what would happen then is that the entire Intemperance contract would be rendered null and void and you would quite possibly be subjected to a heavy monetary penalty. The band itself would then be free to renegotiate a new contract with whomever they wished. You would no longer own the rights to any Intemperance song."
"Is that true, Frowley?" Casting asked.
"Well... theoretically," he said. "But nothing like that is going to happen. She's just trying to scare you."
"Indeed I am," Pauline said. "And I haven't even told you the really scary part yet. Do you want to hear the really scary part, Mr. Casting?"
"No, he doesn't," Frowley said. "This has gone on long enough."
"Shut up, Frowley," Casting said. He turned back to Pauline. "Go ahead."
"Thank you, I think I will," she said. "Do you remember a few minutes ago when we were talking about precedent? I seem to recall you asking me in a sarcastic tone if I knew what that meant and I explained to you that I did, in fact, know what it meant. The question is, do you really know what it means? You see, when the California Supreme Court rules in a case, a precedent is what is set by that ruling. That means if they do end up ruling that Intemperance's contract is invalid under unenforceable provisions and should therefore be rendered null and void, every similar contract that was signed with every other band in the State of California will also be rendered null and void. How many of your contracts were signed in the State of California, Mr. Casting? Could it be that all of them were? How many of your money making bands are still operating under those contracts? Would forty percent be a realistic estimate?"
"That's none of your business," Frowley said.
Pauline shrugged. "I can think of ten or so just off the top of my head. Intemperance, Earthstone, Birmingham, Rob Stinson, Puerto Vallarta, Lucy Loving, The Buttmen, Rhiannon George, Ground Zero — need I go on? I'm sure there are dozens more, some of the most profitable rock, pop, and country acts in the world. If they signed a contract with you in the last five years, that contract will be in jeopardy, all the rights to all of those songs will be in jeopardy, the entire music industry of California will be in jeopardy. Now we're starting to talk about something a little more significant than a mere eighty million dollars, aren't we?"
"Yes," Casting said slowly, his face pale, his mind undoubtedly performing lightening bursts of arithmetic — all of it negative.
"In fact," Pauline said, giving the knife a little extra twist, "wouldn't the mere possibility of a good portion of your profits going into the proverbial shitter have an effect on the price of National Records stock? Wouldn't it really take a nosedive if the Supreme Court actually agreed to hear the case? Would it spin down and crash if they actually ruled in our favor?"
"Yes," Casting said. He was now looking physically ill, like someone had kicked him in the groin. "It would."
"None of that will happen, Mr. Casting," Frowley said, although even he didn't look all that confident any more.
"As I said," Pauline told them, "that is entirely possible, likely even. I'll be honest with you — a rarity for a lawyer, I know — and admit that we probably have no more than a thirty percent chance of success with all this. That gives you odds that are a little better than two out of three. For a gambling man, that's not too bad. In fact, it's damn good. You won't get odds like that at a casino. But we're not playing for mere casino chips here, are we? You have an awful lot to lose by playing those odds and not a whole hell of a lot to win. Are you sure you want to take the chance?"
"The odds are not that high," Frowley said. "She's trying to bluff you."
"What would you say the odds are?" Casting asked him.
"One in a hundred," he said. "Probably less."
"One in a hundred," Casting asked. "What happened to impossible?"
"You can't completely rule anything out," Frowley said. "It would be disingenuous of me to say that. But my advice as lead counsel for this corporation is to reject her offer and call her bluff. She knows the odds are stacked grossly in our favor and I believe the band will stop this ridiculous work action and go back to work once they realize we are not going to budge on this."
"The band is suffering from creativity block," Pauline reminded. "I'm quite certain that nothing will break this block until they're treated a little more fairly. Quite certain."
"And what exactly does 'a little more fairly' mean, Ms. Kingsley?" Casting asked.
"It means just that," she replied. "They're not asking for the world here, just the illusion of fairness, just to lose the overwhelming sensation that you people are screwing them raw with an unlubed sandpaper dildo — if I might quote Mr. Tisdale."
"The illusion of fairness, huh?" Casting said, pondering that.