Wrongful Termination - Chapter 8

Jack Sheridan finished questioning Barbara Beckwith, as well as the rest of the creative department. What he learned wasn’t going to make his job any easier.

It seemed during his career, Dean Montaine had made a lot of enemies, even for an ad man. The creative part was the way he made them. Naturally, he’d plagiarized work from other creative teams who worked for him and represented it as his own. This was nothing new. The practice was rampant throughout ad agencies, especially if it was a good idea. Many of the most famous ad campaigns of the last fifty years have over a hundred teams claiming ownership. Some on campaigns that came out before they were born. For example, everyone seems to have worked on Volkswagen in the sixties. Montaine had even taken credit for the classic ad campaign for the original Volkswagen Beetle, despite the fact his resume didn’t list Doyle Dane Bernbach, the agency that created the ads.

But the thing Dean did that made him so insidious was this: he made you think he was on your side. That he was going to the mat for you. He made you believe he was your friend.

It was a lot of little things really. The way he asked questions about other creatives, leaning in to you, then lowering his voice to a soft whisper that implied an unstated confidence between two professionals. If the creative team in his office was junior, he’d give them lots of attention. Ask what they thought of something he’d written. They’d be wowed. After all, Dean had taken credit for creating a successful national campaign for the popular French mineral water Clair, as well as a start up car company, Neptune. Junior teams didn’t know that in fact he’d stolen those ideas from juniors at the agency.

Upper management was no friend of his either.

On more than one occasion, Dean worked for an agency freelance, only to try and ingratiate himself with the creative department and general manager, then organized a mutiny to squeeze out the executive creative director who’d brought him in in the first place. Sometimes he succeeded.

Then there were the people who ran awards shows. They hated him. Advertising awards are the guilty pleasure of every agency creative. If you ask, creatives roll their eyes at the idea of them. They make a big show of taking refuge behind the fact good work is it’s own reward. But inside every copywriter and art director is a little insecure kid looking for approval and validation. They love winning awards. They love saying they’ve won awards. They love schmoozing at the awards shows. They love getting drunk and seeing if the rumors are true about the media girls at the awards shows. If all creatives hated awards the way they profess to, the shows would never sell out, or be able to charge their obscene entry fees.

Of course, one way to help your chances of winning is to enter lots of ads. Which is exactly what Montaine did year after year. He had the agencies he worked for spend a fortune on entry fees. And he entered lots of work that wasn’t his. The problem was, the people who'd actually done the work also entered it. So when the shows received different entry forms with credits that didn’t jive, they called Dean to clear them up. He always told them the other people were lying. The award show officials knew better.

The women in his life hated him. All of them. His daughter. His wife. His ex-wives. His mistress. In fact, a woman didn’t even have to have a relationship with Dean to hate him. She just had to have a conversation.

When Dean was at one of the bars he frequented, somewhere between a nice buzz and completely passed out, if he saw a woman sitting alone he'd strike up a conversation with her. It didn’t matter if they were waiting for someone, or if they were obvious about not wanting to talk to an overaged hippie. None of it mattered. His usual line would go like this.

“Excuse me, ever see that Clint Eastwood movie where they hang him by mistake?” If the girl said yes, he said, “You know, even when he was swinging from the tree he wasn’t as hung as I am.”

Believe it or not, every once in a while it worked. But when it didn’t, it could be brutal. He'd been slapped, spit on, kicked, had hot coffee thrown at him and been beaten to a pulp by boyfriends who'd shown up while he was still there laughing at his own juvenile joke.

Even when he thought he was being funny, it wasn’t hard to hate Dean.

Wrongful Termination - Chapter 7

Billy’s eyes were as wide as manhole covers.

Being a city kid, he was naturally skeptical. The only real horses he’d ever seen were the ones the police rode in Times Square, and the swayback nags pulling tourists around Central Park in replica turn-of-the-century carriages.

Neither had impressed him.

So when he saw the first bronco break from the gate, all four legs in the air, gyrating wildly, it was all he could do to remember to breathe.

He watched in awe as the cowboy in the red checked shirt tried in vain to stay on the wildly spirited horse. His dad couldn’t help wondering why anyone would put themselves through that kind of beating. That thought never crossed Billy's mind. He just thought it was fun to watch.

Robert thought about his two hundred dollar investment, and was glad it had paid off. The seats weren’t exactly where the black man said they were, but they were awfully good just the same. He felt like he’d won the lottery.

Seeing the smile on his son’s face, he knew he had.

For the first time, he let himself think that maybe everything was going to be okay. Maybe the pain of growing up without a mother might take a leave of absence.

What he didn't know in that moment was the leave was temporary.

Wrongful Termination - Chapter 6

When their cab pulled up to the Garden, the first thing they saw when they got out was a ticket scalper. He was a tall, happy black man with a New York accent, wearing a crisp, Stetson cowboy hat and a red scarf.

“Rodeo tickets right here! Hundred dollars. Get your rodeo tickets here! See them white boys get thrown all around! Hundred dollars.”

“Where are the seats?” Robert asked.

“He’s funny Dad.”

“That’s right little man. I’m as funny as they come. I bet you don’t see a lot of funny men like me up where you live, ain’t that right boss?”

Billy just smiled up at him.

“The seats, where are they?”

“Mister, they so close, you can watch the bruises change colors on the cowboys' ass.”

Billy giggled. Robert took out his 100% tanned leather wallet Johnson & Johnson had given him for one of his job anniversaries, handed the man in the cowboy hat two hundred dollars and took the tickets.

“These better be great seats.”

“If they’re not, you can come back and make me live in Harlem.” He started laughing hysterically.

“Bye mister.” Billy smiled up at him and waved.

“Bye little man. Watch you don’t get any dust in your eyes.”

For a moment, Billy and the black man held a knowing stare.

Then Robert took his sons’ hand and they went inside.

Wrongful Termination - Chapter 5

The rodeo was in town.

If you were driving down the Las Vegas Strip, past exploding volcanoes, pirate ships, the Statue of Liberty, Eiffel Tower, nine story Coke bottle and gargantuan flashing hotel signs, and if you were a stickler for detail, you might have noticed the limp flags hanging from light posts, lamely fighting a losing battle for attention. They read “National Rodeo Finals Oct. 15th - 24th, West Valley Center”.

Billy Delrogh noticed them. In fact, they were almost the only thing he noticed.

Seven years ago, when he was just five years old, Billy became a rodeo fan. His father, Robert, had been a senior vice-president of marketing at Johnson & Johnson in New York for most of his career. But when J & J hired a consultant to help them figure out how they could run more efficiently and profitably, one of their bright ideas was to offer senior management early retirement in a way they couldn’t refuse.

Which actually turned out to be O.K. with Robert.

In the last few years, he’d begun to notice his enthusiasm for New York dwindling. He was also having second thoughts about raising Billy there.

His debate was that while the city was the center of the universe, with its museums, theater, publishing and possibilities, it was also headquarters for the kind of perverse crime that lands on the front page daily, and urban paranoia that leaves you no choice but to walk with your eyes looking behind as much as ahead of you. Of course, September 11th had done nothing to improve that.

Besides, having Billy in a private school, which was the only real option in New York, was giving him a first class education but also shielding him from the very things the city had to offer.

So when the early retirement offer came down, Robert took it. He cashed in his stock options and profit sharing, and decided he was going to take Billy someplace new that had different things to offer.

Space is what he wanted one of those things to be. Despite the fact they lived in an extraordinarily spacious condo on Central Park West, Robert felt Billy should have the opportunity to grow up with a real yard to play in, instead of a cement balcony nine stories above traffic.

Before Sarah died giving birth to Billy, the condo had meant more to them than just a great place to live. Robert struggled for years as a mid-level executive at Johnson & Johnson, and Sarah had had to put up with an unreasonable number of late nights, missed holidays and family dinners with an empty place setting where Robert should have been but wasn’t. She’d taken a part time job as a cocktail waitress at a bar called Rendezvous in the east village just to help make ends meet. It was demeaning, and she grew weary deflecting nasty pick-up lines from drunken losers and losers trying to get drunk.

Persistence was what Robert had always told her. Make yourself indispensable to the company, they’ll see your value and they’ll reward you for it. And he was right. Eventually, they did. The title, the money, stock options, the corner office. All as a way of rewarding the fine work, and recognizing the contribution he’d made to the company’s bottom line.

What success meant more than anything to Robert was at last he’d be able to repay Sarah for her sacrifice. So they rewarded themselves with their dream condo, and the promise of a family to come.

It was exactly the kind of place people with rich fantasy lives imagine they’d live when they think about living in New York. But since Sarah’s death, it'd become a constant, sad reminder to Robert that he was raising his boy alone. While Billy was the most beautiful gift Sarah could have left as her legacy, the truth was that this oversized apartment, with their footsteps echoing on hardwood floors, the muted sound of the traffic coming in the weatherproofed windows, and the two of them rattling around in it only served to constantly remind him of the hole in his heart since she died.

In conversations they’d had while she was pregnant, Sarah always told Robert if anything ever happened to her she wanted him to show Billy things he wouldn’t normally be exposed to in the city.

The circus. The tall boats. The rodeo.

She wanted wide horizons for her son, and she wanted him to appreciate life beyond the cement and skyscraper world he was growing up in. Robert hated it when she talked about dying before he did. Each time she mentioned it, and she mentioned it far too often for a woman her age, he emphatically assured her she’d be around to watch Billy grow up, and see that he learned and saw everything she wanted him to.

It was an assurance he now felt foolish giving.

So, on the very day Billy turned five, a day each year that caused both great grief and celebration, Robert was perusing the New York Times. He turned the middle page of the sports section, and there it was. An ad for the Watkins Family Rodeo at Madison Square Garden.

Remembering his promise, he scooped up Billy, grabbed their coats, and they were off to a rodeo. In the middle of New York City.

He smiled up at Sarah as he closed the door.

Wrongful Termination - Chapter 4

Two of the officers who’d first responded to the call had escorted Dean Montaine’s secretary to the Cressman/Krate coffee room. They'd sealed it off so they could have a little privacy while they questioned her. Which was unfortunate, because once word of Dean’s death had gotten around the agency, the only thing everyone wanted was a cup of coffee. Ad people.

Jack Sheridan came in the coffee room, and walked past the mason jars of Starbucks blend over to one of the officers, who handed him a small notepad and said a few words to him in quiet tones.

Then Sheridan walked over to the woman.

“Miss Beckwith, I’m Detective Jack Sheridan, L.A.P.D. I’m very sorry about what happened here today. If it’s alright, I’d like to ask you a few questions. I’ll try to keep it brief.”

“O.K.” She started to sob again.

Sheridan placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and gestured to one of the other officers who brought him a glass of water.

“Here you go.”

“Thanks.”, she said, downing the water.

“Miss Beckwith,”

“Call me Barbara.”

“Sure. Barbara, is there anyone you can think of who would’ve wanted to see Mr. Montaine dead?”

At that, Barbara started laughing hysterically, spilling water out of both her mouth and nose.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I can’t think of anyone who wouldn’t.”

Wrongful Termination: Chapter 3

Any similarity to persons living or dead, locations or incidents is purely coincidental.

As he walked the hall towards Dean’s office, he passed framed copies of ads Cressman/Krate had produced. Sheridan was amazed that this brain clutter could be displayed with such misplaced pride.

There was an ad for a gas station convenience store showing two just regular blue-collar guys enjoying a beer. “I love it when they make it easier for people to drink behind the wheel,” Sheridan thought. There was an ad for a tennis shoe manufacturer he’d never heard of, a Nike wannabe, showing an extremely buxom girl spilling out of her ridiculously short tennis outfit. The headline read “Love All.” The last one before he turned the corner was a public service ad for a needle exchange program. It showed a drugged out heroin user balancing awkwardly on his knees in front of what looked like a Greyhound station men’s room toilet, throwing his guts up. Even Sheridan had to admit it was a powerful visual. The headline read “Without clean needles, you never know what position you’ll find yourself in.” It was a good message. Didn’t change his opinion about ad people, but still, a good message.

Sheridan walked into the corner office that had belonged to Dean Montaine. The first thing he noticed was the spectacular view overlooking the Santa Monica mountains to the north, and a glimpse of the Pacific ocean to the west. For the last thing Montaine ever saw, he could’ve done worse.

He stooped down next to the body that the coroner had cut down from the light fixture, and was now lying on the industrial carpeted floor covered with a sheet from the knees up.

Montaine’s boots were sticking out the bottom.

Sheridan pulled back the sheet. What he saw was pretty routine as far as hangings went. The head was sitting on the neck at a fifty degree angle, as if he’d been straining to get a better look at a girl in a short skirt walking away from him, or on the phone too long with the receiver between his chin and shoulder. Clearly some additional force besides gravity had been used. If, and it was a preliminary if, it had been murder, then judging by the ransacked looks of the office it appeared as though Montaine had fought the good fight against being placed in a noose and hung from the light. Putting up that kind of resistance, the murderer would have had to use force, yanking him down and snapping his neck. On the other hand, if it did turn out to be suicide, it meant Montaine literally would have to have taken a flying leap off his oak-grain desk with considerable force to do damage like this. His eyes, bloodshot and blank, had popped out of his head far enough for the corneas to touch the lenses of his Coke bottle, tri-focal glasses. His swollen purple, black tongue was sticking out and down to the left side of his mouth, with a thin thread of spittle running down it. Hanging was never a very dignified way to go.

Sheridan also made some personal observations. Montaine was in his late fifties, about six feet tall, hundred seventy pounds. He had a beer gut, and broken blood vessels all along his nose and cheeks. Hard drinker. His hair was straight, long and greasy. His glasses were Jean Paul Gaultier, very expensive, very fashionable. Round in a way that reminded Sheridan of John Lennon. Montaine was wearing stonewashed blue jeans, which had a large wet spot on the front where he’d pissed himself, though it was hard to say if he’d done it before or after. His fingers were stained yellow. His teeth were yellow, brown and decayed from years of alcohol and cigarettes. And probably other things as well. All in all, Sheridan thought, not an attractive man.

Looking at the desk, he noticed Montaine had a small plaque framed in shellacked driftwood branches. It read “Old hippies never die.”

“Guess he was wrong about that.” Sheridan said.

Wrongful Termination: Chapters 1 & 2

Any similarity to persons living or dead, locations or incidents is purely coincidental.

The first thing she noticed was his boots.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t seen them before, it was just that she’d never seen them this close up and personal. She’d never really been interested in men’s footwear, so even she was surprised by the fact she was taking the time to study them.

She'd been looking down at his morning mail as she walked into his office to drop it into his in-box. It was the usual collection of office memos, letters from production company reps, and a couple of comped subscription magazines. Today it was Playboy, with yet another tired photo spread on Pamela Anderson, and Men’s Health, featuring a cover story on how to get better looking abs in seven days.

But as she looked up from the mail, there were the boots staring right at her almost as hard as she was staring at them. She stopped to admire the intricate detail and craftsmanship that had escaped her all the other times she’d seen them. Maybe because then they’d been moving. But here they were - still - allowing her time to really notice things she hadn’t seen before. The fine sterling silver tips. The little moons and stars cut into the toepieces. The bright, golden sunlight reflecting off them because of the blinding shine. The polished, flathead silver tacks that held the toepieces in place. No doubt about it, these were quality boots.

She moved her eyes ever so slightly upward and looked at the leather. Black, wrinkled, worn, but with a look of comfort and familiarity.

“Like a pair of old shoes…,” she thought, smiling.

Yes, these boots were maybe the best looking pair she’d ever seen. And just as she was having that thought, another one came right on the heels of it.

Why were they at eye level?

She looked up, and saw Dean Montaine hanging from the light fixture.

The screaming went on for almost an hour.

Detective Jack Sheridan walked his six foot two frame into the offices of Cressman/Krate, the advertising agency where Dean worked. Or at least had until this morning.

Sheridan worked Westside long enough to see a few cases involving advertising people. He often wondered why more of them weren’t murdered. As far as he could tell, they were for the most part loud, petty, egotistical, annoying and self-loathing. And those were their good traits. He figured the city, which was essentially a company town, made them that way. They all liked to consider advertising a part of the entertainment community. They all thought they were in show business. But the truth was they were just on the periphery of it. If you could call commercials for Swedish furniture stores, Japanese car manufacturers and fast food burger joints show business. No, Sheridan thought, these were, on the whole, people who made a lot of money for contributing nothing to society but volumes of visual and verbal pollution.

Not that it stopped them from thinking they were better than anyone else.

Sheridan walked up to the receptionist who’d just gotten to work and was putting her purse in the drawer. She used to just leave it under the desk at her feet. But a couple months ago she’d run to powder her nose, and a messenger decided he’d help himself to her wallet while she was gone.

He asked to be directed to Dean Montaine’s office.

"Do you have an appointment?”

“Actually, I’m a little late. I don’t think he’ll mind.”

“Your name?”

He flashed his L.A.P.D. badge. “Tell you what. Just tell me where it is. I’d like to surprise him.”

She pointed down the hall towards the northeast corner office.

There was nothing surprising about the fact she wasn’t aware of what had happened. The way Cressman/Krate was laid out, reception was a huge atrium with a narrow, copper waterfall sculpture two hundred yards away at the other end, and a long wall of bad art that at least added color to the space. You had to turn one of the four corners in the lobby and go down a hallway to get to any of the interior offices, which left the receptionist sitting on an island of her own removed from the rest of the employees. Since Dean Montaine’s body was discovered two and half hours before the agency opened, there was no way she’d have seen the police and coroner personnel that were already securing the scene.

Besides, Sheridan thought, receptionists are always the last to know.