Chapter 2
Just an FYI to all of you who made it to this chapter: I am a very slow writer. Do not count on rapid chapters being released. Sorry, I am just that slow. Also, this story is for free and will remain that way. I write for fun and have no interest in making money off my stories.
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"Hate people? I don't hate anyone. To hate someone, you first had to give a shit about them. I don't care about anyone but myself. Well, me and a few others. Like David Fincher, who without his help I would still be some street punk nobody gave a fuck about or dead." Caesar Espinar.
-1994-
The next day, I found myself in an interesting position. Well, maybe not that interesting. I mean, I have found myself on the wrong side of a gun more times than I care to admit. And ended up being shot at more than once. But this was the first time I had ever been confronted by guys in suits who had guns. Not that I could blame them for basically holding me up right now. After all, when someone like me enters New Line Cinema HQ, people tend to become cautious even if they were invited.
Understanding their fears, I raised my arms and spread them so they could search me for weapons. Perhaps someone else would feel insulted by this, but not me. After all, I was here to sell a script, not cause trouble. But wouldn't you know it, while I was being searched, David walked down the hall and saw what was going on—and didn't look happy.
"What is going on here?" David asks/demands.
One of the security guards answers, "Just your routine search, Director Fincher."
"On a guest who was invited to be here today? Caesar, did you tell them your name when you arrived?" David asks in anger.
"Yep, but they insisted they search me before I go any further," I tell him.
Now that David looks really pissed, the guard looks a bit nervous and says, "Director Fincher, this young man looks very suspicious. We have to make sure he isn't dangerous."
I speak up before David can say anything, "Let them have it, Director Fincher. These men are only doing their job. Hell, if I were them and someone like me walked into the building, I would kick them out without asking a name."
And wasn't that the truth? After all, while I put on my best clothes for this meeting, my best was a clean T-shirt and slacks from Goodwill. The simple truth of it was that I didn't belong here. They knew it, I knew it, and David knew it. But I have to say I was impressed by David for sticking up for me like he did. We hadn't even talked for more than 30 minutes the other day, and he was already speaking up for me. Maybe it was because he was worried, I wasn't going to sell my script now, or perhaps it was pride that someone he invited to a meeting was stopped like this. Whichever it was, it made me respect the man just a little bit.
When they are done, they hand me back my pack of cigarettes. David says, "Sorry about that, Caesar."
I wave him off, however, and say, "Please forget about it, Director Fincher. They were doing their job."
"True, but it was still disrespectful to you and me that they searched you like that," David says.
So, it was a pride thing after all. Good to know, I think to myself. Not that I can blame him. If you personally invite someone to something and they get turned away by low-level grunts, that makes you look bad, even if it was only to a nobody like me.
"Yeah, I can see that, but let's move on. Are these Hollywood bigwigs ready to buy my script?" I ask him.
Hearing me bring up my script, David immediately thinks of what we are here for today. "That is right. Just follow me."
Following him, it took about 10 minutes to arrive at a conference room, where a man wearing a suit was waiting for us.
"Caesar, let me introduce you to Arnold Kopelson. He is the producer who will be buying your script on behalf of New Line. Arnold, this is Caesar Espinar." David says.
Rising from his seat, Arnold shakes my hand and says, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Caesar."
Shaking the man's hand, I looked him dead in the eye and said, "The pleasure is mine, Mr. Kopelson."
Then we sat down to talk. Well, I say we, but really it was them who spoke, I just listened. Let me skip the boring details for you. This Arnold guy took one look at me and immediately thought I was just some hood he could take advantage of. A kid who would be all too happy to sell his script on the cheap to New Line, and you know what, he was right. I was ready to sell them my script for pennies on the dollar. After all, while I knew Se7en was a 300 million dark horse in the making, they didn't. There was no way they would pay top dollar to a nobody like me for a script they didn't even know would make bank. Plus, this was just about getting my foot in the door anyway. If I had to sacrifice thousands of dollars now to make millions later, I was willing to do it.
That said, again, David impressed me. I will never truly understand what was going on in that head of his that day, but the moment Arnold tried to lowball me, he stood up for me. Maybe David saw something in me. A talent that he wanted to milk dry for himself. Or perhaps it was like he told the media years later. He just saw a young kid who needed help and helped him. Whatever the case, David, on my behalf, was personally insulted by the amount Arnold offered me. He demanded that New Line pay me more for the script. Not like millions of dollars, but when I walked out of that office that day, it was with fifty-five thousand dollars in the bank. Well, it would have been if I had a bank account.
Now I know what you are thanking. Caesar, you gave up a script to a movie that would make 300 million at the box office for just fifty-five thousand dollars. What the fuck is wrong with you. Well, let me say this. Yes, I did, and I would do it again. Forget the fact that I was a nobody right now in Hollywood. The average yearling income in 1994 for a single person was 19,000. I had just made more than double that in one day. I went from broke as fuck to having more money then I knew what to do with but again I wasn't stupid. This money was only temporary, and I wasn't about to blow it all on stupid shit.
After all, taxes alone would kill me down the road and see me in jail for a lot longer than the 2 years I served in juvie after I was shot. Before I did anything else, I needed a lawyer.
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After leaving New Line HQ, I headed straight for my roach-infested apartment with a cashier's check I didn't want to have in my pocket for long. Especially in the neighborhood I was living in. So, climbing the stairs to my apartment quickly, I take a left down the walkway and stop at the door next to mine. Then knock on the door. When the door opens, I am greeted by the sight of one, Alexandra Céspedes. You don't know her. At least you don't know her yet. But one day, this 5'3" mousey-looking woman with her thick soda can glasses, and mother of two, would be one of Hollywood's most feared lawyers. And I was her first client.
To give you a little more background on the woman, Alexandra was born to a typical Mexican Catholic family. Her mother and father immigrated legally to the US sometime in the 1960s. Found good jobs and had two kids a few years later. One of them was her, and the other was her older brother, who was arrested on false charges and died in prison at the age of 19. From that moment on, her path in life had been set. At least in her mind it was. She wanted to be a lawyer, a public defender, if you can believe it. Her desire was to make sure what happened to her brother never happened to anyone else, so long as she could help it. However, things didn't exactly go how she thought they would, and it started long before I came along.
Now, like I said before, she already has two kids. Two girls, and no, it wasn't out of wedlock. No, she did things that many people thought were the right way. She went to college, fell in love with an idiot, and 3 years later married said idiot. But she still went to school despite what he wanted her to do. That was where the problems started. Both came from a traditional Catholic family where gender roles were clearly set. The man was head of the household, and she was supposed to be the stay-at-home wife and mother. That wasn't her. Even after she got pregnant, she kept going to school against her husband's wishes. I don't need to elaborate on what happened next, but I will.
Her man, if he could be called a man, didn't take her, still going to school well, even though her parents were around to help out with their first kid. Something that allowed both of them to keep going to school. According to her, they fought all the time but still somehow found the time to have a 2nd child. Making an already troubled marriage even worse. Then it really started going downhill when her father fell ill with cancer, and her parents could no longer look after the kids as much, forcing them to find part-time jobs and go to school as well as finding a way to pay for the old man's medical bills. With all that piling up, the boy who tried to disguise himself as a man couldn't take the pressure and left, leaving her with two kids, a sick father, and bills that needed to be paid.
But Alexandra didn't break. She was a true woman of steel and found a way to push forward. She finished school a few months before I moved in next door and was now interning at a small law office, making just enough to pay the bills. This is where I come in. When I moved in, the first person I met was Alexandra's mom, who was struggling up the stairs with some groceries. Now I admit I am many things, most of them not good but I am not such an asshole that I will ignore an old lady in need. So, I helped her out by carrying her groceries up those stairs and into her apartment. My reward for doing so was being invited to dinner.
Not to get all emotional here, but I had never in my life up to that point had a home-cooked meal. So, to say I got a little emotional after I tasted Rosia's home cooking would be a lie. Alexandra's old man still calls me a fucking cry babe to this day for that. Jokily, of course, but he was from an older, harder generation, so I let it go. Plus, the old man knew without asking what I had been through. So, he never pushed things too far.
Back on subject, I met Alexandra at this dinner and we hit it off. Not in a sexual way, mind you. For God's sakes, I was 18 and she was 27. Not that I minded the age gap, but she did. No, we hit it off as friends, and as friends, we helped each other out. I would help her mother and father around their apartment and watch her kids. They would feed me from time to time, and her mother would wash what few clothes I had. It was nice to be honest and made me realize there are good people out there if you know where to look. Not many, but some.
Again, to get back on the subject, I knew from day one that she was a lawyer, and I won't lie—the reason I was so helpful was that alone. If my plans to enter Hollywood were to come true, I would need legal representation at some point. After all, people in suits were far more dangerous than criminals with guns. A criminal with a gun can only kill you. Men in suits can kill dreams and whole families.
"Oh, hey Caesar, what's up? Here to bum another free meal?" Alexandra teases me.
"Nope, not today. Are your momma and papa home? I have news." I smile and push my way into the apartment. Somewhat rudely to get on her nerves.
Something she lets me do. After all, she was used to me entering her home at this point, and we kind of had this older sister and little brother thing going on between us.
"No, Momma is at the hospital with Papa. Why?" Alexandra asks.
Turing around and facing her, I just gave her a big smile and said, "I did it."
After she closed the door, she looked at me and asked, "Did what?"
I don't answer her and keep smiling till her eyes widen in surprise and she says, "No…. you didn't"
"I did. Check it out," I say, pulling out the cashier's check and showing it to her with a smile on my face.
"Fifty-five thousand dollars. You got to be shitting me. Most screenwriters only get a couple of grand for their first script." She says in shock.
"What can I say? The guy who wanted to make a movie with my script really liked it," I tell her.
"Oh my God, Caesar, congratulations." She says and really means it.
Over the last few years, her life has been hard. Truly hard, but she knew that Caesar's was worse. He never spoke about what he had been through and most likely never would, but just looking at the scars on his body told the story for him. And if that wasn't, you could look inside his apartment to understand his outlook on life, as there was nothing in there but a cot, pillow, and gun he kept by his bed. Her father once told her never to ask him about his life before he met them. Saying he had those eyes. The same eyes he had when his father abandoned him in Mexico City with no money and no way to make a living. The eyes of a survivor who did what he had to, to keep living.
Walking up to Caesar, she hugs him tightly and feels him stiffen up, then relax until she feels him pull away.
Looking at her for a moment, I shake my head and say, "So, anyway, now that I have sold my first script, I need your help."
"My help?" She asks, a bit confused.
"Ya, your help. I mean, come on, Alex, look at me. Do I look like someone who can hang with these Hollywood people?" I ask her.
After looking at me for a moment, she nods her head and says, "Okay, you do have a point there."
Not going to lie, that hurt. She agreed so easily that it makes me feel a bit less of a man, but I put it aside and moved on. "Exactly, I am no fool. I have sold them one script. When it's successful, I can sell another, and when that one is successful, another. After two or three hits those fuckers will look to bleed me dry. I need someone to watch my back."
"If it's a success, Caesar?" She points it out.
But I waved her off. "It will, but what really matters is that my foot is now in the door. Even if this movie only makes a tiny profit, I can sell another script, but I need a lawyer and an agent at some point."
Alex thinks this over and knows what I said is true, but she says, "Caesar, you know I am a defense attorney."
"Doesn't matter. I trust you and need your help," I tell her. Then I add, "Tell you what. If you help me out, I will pay you. That check—a quarter of it—is yours."
That gets her attention, I think to myself as I see her eyes widen a bit. After all, a quarter of 55,000 dollars is a lot of money—more than she was currently making. But like I said, she came from a good Catholic family. She was no leech like so many others.
"Caesar, I can't let you pay me that much. An agent gets 10 percent at most, and hiring a lawyer like me is less than 500," She says to me.
"Then consider it an investment and show of trust," I told her, though I didn't trust her if I was being honest. I trust her father.
Like I said, that man came from a different time. So long as he was still alive, I could trust his daughter wouldn't screw me over. After he died, I would have to rethink that.
After a moment, Alex says, "Fine, but only this one time. Afterwards, you will pay me a simple retainer fee, got it."
Shrugging my shoulders, I say, "Hey, I am not about to fight with a lawyer."
"Okay…. First of all, we need to get you a bank account. Do you have some form of ID?" She asks me.
"I have a record if that helps," I say jokingly.
"This is going to be a long day," Alex says with a groan.