Glancing at the subordinate who'd caused him no small amount of trouble, Lou Wasserman said, "Joe, as for your side, Brian De Palma stays on as director and will also serve as producer for The Butterfly Effect. Fox's offer is $2 million, plus 10% of the North American box office profits."
Jonathan Friedman nodded.
Without those two recent flops, Brian De Palma's fee would hover around $3 million.
Now, with Fox offering $2 million plus 10% of North American profits, Jonathan Friedman had zero complaints. What he'd aimed to secure for his client before was just a flat $2 million anyway.
Of course, Jonathan understood that Brian De Palma landing this relatively generous deal was mainly due to the exposure of those WMA-infighting-triggering stingy contracts over the past few days.
Both Fox and WMA needed "facts" to refute the media reports.
Thinking this, Jonathan Friedman started anticipating Fox's quote for Simon's script. But he didn't speak up, waiting patiently for Lou Wasserman to continue.
After covering Brian De Palma, Lou Wasserman checked his notes again and looked up. "On the script: price bumped to $200,000—$160,000 for The Butterfly Effect script fee, $40,000 to option the writer's next two scripts first-look."
Jonathan paused, then asked, "Lou, still a buyout?"
Lou Wasserman shook his head. "Base fee—residuals per industry standard."
Only then did Jonathan relax. If it stayed a buyout, even doubled, he wasn't sure Simon would agree.
Now, just adding first-look on one more script, Jonathan believed Simon would know the right choice.
Seeing no objection from Jonathan, Lou continued, "Joe, beyond these three, scrap the original package entirely. Fox's new budget is $10 million. At that level, rework a lead cast list and get it to me tomorrow—any issues?"
Jonathan realized Lou just wanted to rush a simplified core-creative-only package with Fox; current circumstances left WMA no alternatives. He nodded again. "No problem."
Hearing Jonathan's reply, Lou Wasserman closed his notes and waved him off. "That's it then—you can get to work now."
Jonathan stood, noting the other three stayed seated; clearly, they'd discuss the recent leak storm next.
Such a damaging internal breach—WMA would pursue it relentlessly.
But Jonathan doubted they'd uncover much. The leaker knew the grave consequences and wouldn't act without covering tracks thoroughly.
Leaving the conference room, Jonathan Friedman strolled lightly down the outer hallway, basking in the warm morning sun through the glass walls, feeling an unprecedented ease.
Media buzz on WMA's debacle continued.
Jonathan knew that while he'd cleared this hurdle, the fallout made further advancement at WMA near impossible.
Even once seventy-five-year-old Lou Wasserman retired from chairman in coming years, without that shield, Norman Brokaw might boot him out entirely.
But shedding the long-held cautious climb-or-fall mindset, Jonathan felt years of pent-up gloom and resentment vanish.
He realized, compared to many in the industry, he was already quite strong.
With over twenty years of experience and connections, even leaving WMA, he'd thrive—maybe better.
Now, free from constant compromises, he could focus solely on his clients. He believed many would stick with him through whatever came.
Unwittingly reaching his office door, Jonathan Friedman paused, suddenly thinking of the boy who'd spurred all this. He approached his assistant outside. "Owen, get me Simon's contact address."
Jonathan had thirty-seven clients; Western naming lacked creativity, and more than one went by Simon.
But Owen Wright instantly knew which, flipping deftly through a thick Rolodex and handing over a card.
Jonathan scanned it briefly and passed it back. "I'm stepping out—back by noon."
Owen Wright nodded, watching Jonathan leave, thinking inwardly: Looks like I should connect more with that Simon Westeros kid.
Leaving WMA headquarters, Jonathan Friedman drove straight to Griffin Supermarket in midtown Santa Monica.
New week, Simon back on morning shift.
It was 9:40 AM.
Store traffic light; Simon was doing routine inventory on his aisle when Courteney Cox, in a pink tee and short shorts, sauntered over casually.
Sensing the faint, pleasant perfume wafting nearby, Simon turned and smiled at Courteney. Seeing her cradling items in her arms, he said, "You always shop by hugging stuff like that?"
Courteney, prompted by Simon initiating, replied with her habitual edge, "Yeah—so what?"
Simon shook his head promptly. "Nothing. If all customers were like you, our carts would last way longer."
"Heh, next time I'll use a cart," Courteney said, picking a ketchup bottle and still hugging it. Seeing Simon refocus on his folder, she hesitated, then casually added, "Those papers lately—um, The Butterfly Effect—you wrote it?"
Though not deeply involved, beyond glimpsing Run Lola Run, Courteney hadn't known Simon's other scripts; she hadn't cared much either.
And the leaks hadn't named the The Butterfly Effect writer—clearly intentional.
Revealing Simon as an eighteen-year-old rookie might undercut claims of Fox's stingy buyout. In an era where most earned ten or twenty grand yearly, many would think: An eighteen-year-old making $100,000—what's to complain about?
Courteney struggled to believe the script sparking Hollywood's storm was by Simon—this ordinary boy showing no special traits.
But she knew Jonathan Friedman had just one writer client: Simon.
Simon glanced at the probing girl, smiling and nodding casually. "Yeah."
Though half-expecting it, Courteney widened her eyes at his confirmation. "Really?"
Before Simon could reply, Roger Griffin's plump form poked from the aisle's other end. "Simon, someone's here for you."
Simon acknowledged, marked his folder, and headed out.
Courteney hesitated briefly, then followed, arms full.
Just rounding the shelves, Simon spotted agent Jonathan Friedman at a checkout exit, nodding his way.
Courteney soon noticed too, her lingering surprise resurfacing.
Since signing, she'd never had this WMA powerhouse personally seek her out—early on, she mostly dealt with Jonathan's assistant.
Simon crossed the checkout to Jonathan's side. The agent eyed his supermarket uniform, smiling warmly as they shook hands, patting his shoulder. "Didn't expect you here. Tell me sooner—I could've hooked you up with better part-time work."
Simon joked, "Not too late now."
"Now, heh—no need anymore," Jonathan chuckled, shaking his head, then turned to approaching Courteney, shaking her hand. "Court, didn't expect you here. You know Simon?"
Courteney sensed Jonathan's warmer vibe toward Simon but nodded sweetly. "Yeah, I live nearby—shop here often, bumped into Simon that way."
"Oh, what a coincidence," Jonathan replied, then refocused on Simon. "Simon, can you take a couple hours off? Let's chat outside."
"Sure," Simon nodded, glancing around and approaching the peeking Roger Griffin. Beside the boss, he said, "Roger, my agent's here with something urgent."
Beyond skimping on pay, the middle-aged chub was easygoing otherwise. Glancing at the elegant middle-aged man nearby, he agreed readily. "No problem—back by noon, just dock two hours.