Chapter 412: Those Who Messed With Jessica Are Fools

After seeing off Tina Fey, Frank Pierson returned to his study. He sat behind his desk with a dark expression and opened the documents she had personally delivered. He only read a few pages before his face darkened further, but he had survived in this industry for many years. Able to control his emotions, he forced himself to keep reading.

Two million dollars meant little to a director like Duke, but it meant something completely different to him.

Despite serving as the vice president of the rotating committee for the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, Frank Pierson's income wasn't nearly as lofty as his title suggested. A substantial amount of money did flow into his accounts every year, especially during awards season, but two million dollars was still no small sum to him.

He had started out as a director and screenwriter. His peak years were in the sixties and seventies, and his most successful work was the remake of A Star Is Born. Yet even during that golden era, the income from his dual professions hadn't been incredibly high. His current status was built more on accumulated seniority than raw wealth.

As someone who had spent years grinding his way to a high position, Frank Pierson was a natural conservative, and he served as one of the core members of the Academy's conservative faction.

In truth, he was nearing eighty and had no great personal need for money. But behind every successful father sat a disappointing son or two. He had taken out the two million dollars to invest purely for his son's sake.

If an investment in a project like this succeeded, it would undoubtedly secure a long-term meal ticket.

True, no one could guarantee a film's success. But while Frank Pierson had voted for Tim Robbins during the awards run for Saving Private Ryan, he had never underestimated Duke's commercial instincts.

In his eyes, Duke's commercial blockbusters were not only a guarantee of explosive box office returns but also massive boosters for merchandise sales. As long as the investment succeeded, the continuous stream of revenue sharing would be enough to guarantee his disappointing son a basic livelihood long after he was gone.

But Frank Pierson never imagined that Duke Rosenberg would send his personal assistant directly to his door to deliver these documents. She had brought a message along with them: Duke had discovered a problem with the project they were negotiating, and they might have all walked into a carefully designed trap.

Pierson didn't harbor much doubt. Over a week ago, concrete news had circulated that Duke had paid a one-million-dollar advance deposit to Christophe Rocancourt. Since Duke's own vital interests were involved, he had no reason to lie about something like this.

Gently closing the file, Frank Pierson suddenly laughed, though the sound was bitter. He leaned back in his chair.

Even if he disliked the director's cinematic style, he was absolutely certain Duke wouldn't joke about this.

At the same time, an incredibly complex wave of emotion washed over him. Who could have imagined that the man he'd known for over four years—a man with a wide network of friends and a solid reputation in Hollywood—was actually a master con artist running a ten-year scam?

If the person who sent him these documents hadn't been a fellow member of the Hollywood Jewish Club, he truly would have refused to believe it.

After all, the man had been a fixture in Hollywood for ten years. He counted countless celebrities, great and small, among his friends. As far as Pierson knew, the man had even dated the daughter of a foreign president.

How could a man like that be a fraud?

Frank Pierson had fallen for it once; he wouldn't be so easily fooled a second time.

He picked up the phone and dialed the number of his retired old friend, Arthur Miller. Marilyn Monroe's ex-husband was far more than just a film director and a former president of the Academy. He possessed extensive connections, and thanks to the special relationship between Hollywood and the Federal Government, he maintained ties to certain departments in Washington.

If the matter hadn't been of paramount importance, Frank Pierson never would have asked the bedridden, ailing man for help.

After finishing the call, he rushed out the door and headed straight for Arthur Miller's convalescent villa in Santa Monica.

Investigating someone from scratch took a considerable amount of time, but verifying the authenticity of an already detailed dossier was a much simpler task.

Just three days later, Frank Pierson received word from his old friend: there was over a ninety percent chance that the documents were entirely accurate.

Facts trumped fantasy. Frank Pierson was now certain that many people, himself included, had been utterly blinded by the emperor's new clothes that Christophe Rocancourt had spent a decade meticulously weaving.

Sitting back in his study, Frank Pierson opened the file once more. Incredibly familiar names leaped out at him from the pages...

This was no longer a personal matter. It concerned the honor of the entire Hollywood circle. The Academy didn't just exist for the Oscar; it operated under the banner of art to maintain Hollywood's glamorous facade, keeping the industry's filth and stench hidden from the public eye.

And the vast majority of the victims, Duke included, were members of the Academy. The list featured veterans like himself, along with directors heavily favored by the Academy, such as Steven Soderbergh.

After sitting there in deep thought for a long time, Frank Pierson picked up his phone and dialed a number he rarely ever called.

A woman answered the phone first, followed by a somewhat unfamiliar voice that he vaguely remembered.

"Duke," Frank Pierson said solemnly. "Thank you."

"You're too polite, Mr. Pierson." Duke left the beach seating area and walked alone toward the sea. "I'm a victim here too. If he succeeds, I stand to lose much more than a million dollars."

"We were all blinded by the profits he promised."

At Frank Pierson's age, there was no longer any need to hide behind polite words. "We forgot the necessary caution and investigation required before investing."

"Frank..." Duke stared out at the vast ocean, his words a careful mix of truth and fiction. "When we first made contact, I had my lawyers and accountants run a background check on him, and they found absolutely nothing. He was incredibly patient during our negotiations, refusing to budge from his bottom line. Nothing about him raised any red flags. I just happened to get lucky..."

Where Duke couldn't see him, Frank Pierson nodded in agreement. His own lawyers and accountants had run checks before he invested, and they hadn't found a single problem either.

"You probably know my relationship with the Los Angeles County Police Department has always been solid."

That fact was common knowledge across Hollywood. People who despised law enforcement had even cursed Duke for directing two films that glorified the Los Angeles police.

"When I was at a gathering with Sheriff Carter," Duke continued, "I met a former FBI agent who runs a private detective agency. I happened to think about this deal and asked him to look into it for me. The results completely exceeded my expectations."

When dealing with a senior Academy member like Frank Pierson, Duke knew better than to spin wild tales. Over ninety percent of what he'd just said was the absolute truth. Even if Pierson went snooping around, he wouldn't find any glaring holes in the story.

"I only received the dossier last week. I wanted to make sure there weren't any mistakes, so I only had it delivered to you after thoroughly verifying everything."

The line went silent for a moment. Just as Duke started to wonder if Frank Pierson had hung up, the older man's voice sounded again. "Duke, how do you plan to handle this?"

Duke knew exactly how to play it. "I think we should hear what the others have to say. After all, I'm not the only victim here."

"What are your thoughts, Frank?" Duke asked.

"We shouldn't make a scene just yet. Let me contact the others privately first, and then we'll go to the police."

No matter how you looked at it, this was much bigger than just him. Duke paused deliberately for a moment before replying. "I agree with you. I've already had the files sent over to Steven and a few others I'm familiar with."

By "familiar," he naturally meant his peers of Jewish descent.

"I'll call them, and then I'll notify the others."

Duke hung up the phone and let out a long exhale. He knew perfectly well that in the eyes of the Academy's old guard, he was nothing more than a commercial director. They didn't hold a very high opinion of him, and anyone with half a brain could see that the critics weren't about to sit back and watch him sweep everything during awards season.

The films were merely the foundation. What he was doing right now was necessary groundwork.

Glancing back at the small group chatting under the sun umbrella, Duke didn't rejoin them. Instead, he remained standing by the water, gazing out at the sea. His future was as vast as the Pacific Ocean stretching out before him, and the road ahead was still incredibly long.

His Mobile Phone rang again. Duke answered, listened for a moment, and smiled. "Steven, you're being far too polite. We're all victims here."

The caller was Steven Soderbergh.

Over the next few hours, Duke's phone rang constantly.

"Ben, there's no need to be so polite. Let's focus on how to deal with the guy."

"George, I heard you have some connections in political circles. It'd be best if you had someone keep an eye on him for now."

"Daniel, I haven't even thanked you for that kick from back then. Don't mention it. We need to stand together."

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, Duke received another call from Frank Pierson. "Don't worry, Frank, I'll coordinate everything on my end."

These phone calls were about far more than just saying thank you. Duke knew full well that when the crucial moment arrived, the events of today would sway their votes.

How to guide that influence over the next two years would rely on Penny Kalis and Nancy Josephson's maneuvering. After all, dealing with people was exactly what they were paid to do.

With the situation reaching this point, Christophe Rocancourt was no longer of any use. In the coming days, he was destined to face the fury of numerous powerful people who had suddenly realized they'd been played. It wasn't hard to guess what kind of miserable fate awaited him.

Now that a heavyweight veteran like Frank Pierson had taken the lead in coordinating everything, Duke didn't need to waste any more energy on it.

Handing his Mobile Phone to Tina Fey, Duke gave Ivanka Trump a reassuring look before shifting his gaze back to Wallace Lee across from him.

"Where did we leave off, Lee?" He tapped his head. "Ah right, the werewolf and vampire story!"