Hella Nation - Evan Wright [103]
Warshavsky called me into his office to witness his negotiations with Earl. (Warshavsky later told me he was seized by an irrational paranoia that the prizefighter might send a gunman into our building to retrieve the suspiciously acquired tapes; he wanted another body in the office to distract the imaginary gunman he feared entering.)
Warshavsky asked Earl how he obtained the tapes.
Earl’s story—told in his raspy, asthmatic voice—was that he happened to be out jogging one morning in Las Vegas when he discovered the tapes in a trash pile outside a casino. “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” he had said, smiling at the conclusion of his improbable tale.
“I like that,” Warshavsky said. He dialed Alan Isaacman, the First Amendment attorney best known for defending Larry Flynt. Warshavsky put Isaacman on speakerphone and asked Isaacman if he thought he could circumvent invasion-of-privacy issues associated with showing private tapes online by billing them as being part of a “news story.”
Warshavsky giggled, warming to his own idea. “We’ll do a story and call it—what’d you say, Earl?—‘One Man’s Trash Is Another Man’s Treasure.’ It’ll be the life and times of a Las Vegas trash picker. And here’s what he finds, some rotten vegetables, maybe some tampons, and look at this, a videotape with a famous prizefighter banging a bunch of whores. See, Alan, it’s editorial. We’re not exploiting the product for commercial use. It’s part of a news story, and we’re protected under the First Amendment, right?”
Isaacman’s breath sounded like clicks in the speakerphone. He spoke, “That’s an interesting legal analysis, Seth, but before we go on, we’ve got to talk about the thirty thousand dollars you still owe us.”
Warshavsky ended the call with a promise that he would send the check immediately.
Earl sat on the couch expressionlessly watching this performance.
“How much do you want for the tapes, Earl?” Warshavsky asked.
Earl wanted a million dollars.
Warshavsky offered him five thousand.
Earl stood up, as if to leave.
Over the next twenty-four hours, Warshavsky bargained him down to $20,000.
The following morning Earl sat on the couch in Warshavsky’s office waiting to be paid cash. Warshavsky kept him sitting there for hours, while he paced in and out, shouting into his cell phone and snorting. When Warshavsky darted out to use the bathroom, Earl summoned me into the room and spoke in his icy whisper. “I feel like he’s holding me hostage. I am not a violent man.” He drilled his finger into my chest. “But I sometimes lose control. I don’t know what I might do to him.”
Earl stood when Warshavsky came back, still talking on a cell phone. Earl breathed heavily, emitting a thick odor—bad breath mingled with fruity wine, cheap cologne. “When the fuck you gonna pay me, Seth?”
“Calm down, Earl,” Warshavsky said. “You’re being taken care of.”
“Taken care of?” Earl shouted. “You put me up in a fucking fleabag hotel.”
“It was not a fleabag hotel, Earl,” Warshavsky said, his voice firm. “It was a premium, four-star establishment.”
Warshavsky sat at his desk, as if to assert his mastery of the situation. “We’re bringing you a check now.” Warshavsky shouted to his secretary, “Virginia! Bring the check for Earl.”
“I ain’t taking no check. You said cash.”
“Earl, listen to me.”
“You listen,” Earl said. “It’s not about what Seth wants anymore. It’s about what Earl wants.”
“Earl, we can’t pay you cash.”
“No cash?” Earl dropped onto the couch, an air of defeat in his voice. “All we’ve been talking about is cash. No cash. No