PRIVATE SCREENING. The Making and Unmaking of An American Dream

PRIVATE SCREENING
the making and unmaking of an american dream
This book is dedicated to my four children: Andrew, Kay, Adam and Alexander.
INTRODUCTION
One hundred years ago the huddled masses of the world poured through the gates of Ellis Island and headed west to seek their fortunes in the wilderness. They were, almost without exception, the deprived, the dispossessed and the discontented. Behind them they left societies where talent went unrewarded, where education and advancement were the monopoly of a few, where rigid class systems, authoritarian governments, corrupt and self- seeking legislatures and moribund religious institutions conspired to keep them on the bottom rungs of the ladder. In front of them lay a land in which everything was possible- a land in which the pioneer was king and any man or woman, regardless of their origins, could use their talents and industry to raise themselves to prominence and their country to greatness. One hundred years later, much has changed. The pioneers of yesterday are the lawyers of today. The rigid class system of the Old World has been replaced by the professional class system of the New. Ellis Island is closed to all but tourists. The United States government no longer welcomes huddled masses: It actively discourages them. 3
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In the months it took to write this book, it would not have been possible without the help of my wife Malika Belhaj, for her patience and her many sacrifices. Kevin McGinnis, my next door neighbor, had to suffer many sleepless nights because of the crying baby. I expected him to move but instead, he spent even more sleepless nights editing this book.
Copyright 2000 c 2011 by William Touzani
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address William Touzani at: BillTouzani@ Comcast.net ISBN-13: 978-1461156994 ISBN-10: 1461156998
CONTENTS
SATISFACTION GARANTEED 1 GOD 2 BILL 3 DONNA 4 JIM 5 LISA 6 BIRGIT 7 MEL 8 ANDREW 9 RODNEY THE FRAME-UP 10 DENNIS 11 KEVIN 12 MICHAEL 13 MINUTE MAID 14 MELITTA 15 R.O.1 16 R.O.2 CRIMES OF PATENT 17 KAMAL 18 FERGUSON 19 TOUZANI inc 20 OMAR 21 SCAT 22 DA 1 23 DA 2 24 YEHUDA 25 DEGOOIJER 26 DAVID
7 9 11 29 43 58 73 98 128 144 165 167 192 216 235 253 279 300 329 331 349 358 373 385 405 428 448 478 507
"COLLAPSIBLE BOTTLES HIGH-TECH SOLUTION FOR 'FIZZED OUT SOFT' DRINKS? William Touzani says he came up with the idea as a frustrated consumer...so on October 11, 1985, Touzani left his job with Picker International to form Collapsible Bottle of America...Touzani certainly drew interest at the show. On the first day, over 2,000 people left business cards
Beverage Industry (january 1986)
"KIDS LOVE FRUIT BURPLE AND ITS EXPANDABLE BURPING BOTTLE.The bottle is enjoying phenomenal sales growth... it may well become one of America's more famous packages."
Packaging (May 1988)
"A CONCERTINA OF A BOTTLE General Foods (Kool Aid) and others are packing juice concentrates into a bottle that expands like an accordion when filled. It saves on refrigerator and store shelf space. And it preserves freshness by limiting air inside." "Coke, Pepsi and A & W are eager to merchandise their versions of the revolutionary bottle because it keeps carbonated beverages from going flat so quickly. This year, more than 100 million containers were sold." New York Post (December 7, 1988) "Eight Stocktonians who invested in a company that markets a collapsible beverage bottle are suing the company's general partner for $5 million for alleged misappropriation of funds." The Stockton Record(April 1989)
Business Week (June27, 1988)
"We have promised to be your exclusive licensees for Europe. Your invention 'tamper monitoring closure' is an important breakthrough in the safeguard of consumer welfare..." Bencap, Germany "Jerrican with expandable spout wins the 1990 Gold Star Award" TheWorld Packaging Organization, Paris, France "DA FILES 1st CASE UNDER COMMERCIAL BRIBERY LEGISLATION ...That evidence ...Provided prosecutors with enough information to charge the inventor with one felony count of the new offense of commercial bribery, He was also charged with one felony count of soliciting perjured testimony. A warrant has been issued for Touzani's arrest" San Diego Daily Transcript (September14, 1990) "Please advise your client that the arrest warrant will not be withdrawn and that he is considered to be a fugitive. We consider the solicitation of a witness to commit perjury at trial to be a very serious offense." Douglas C. Cregg, Deputy District Attorney (January8, 1991)
PART ONE
SATISFACTION GUARANTEED
1 . GOD
It was an American ceiling, finely constructed with the care that only Americans can lavish on their public buildings. It had been immaculately levelled and carefully painted so that no tell-tale indication of its original color was discernable no matter how hard you looked. In spite of this pedigree enviable in the closing years of the twentieth century unknown decades of wear and tear were beginning to betray themselves. There was an area hard up against the faintly flickering fluorescent light on my left where the paint was beginning to flake off. Straight ahead, on the periphery of my vision, a thin crack snaked downwards towards a distant wall. There was a window. If I pulled my head sideways until the muscles began to strain I could see its comforting, tantalizing brightness. Outside it was another Californian day. "You finished?" "Uh?" "I said are you finished?" The tears began to slither down my face once more. I wanted to wipe them away and hide my eyes from this stranger but my arms were pinioned and all I could do was toss my head from side to side. "That mean no?" "No." My voice came distantly as if it had echoed down every corridor of the psychiatric wing before finding its way back into the room. "I mean yes. Yes, I'm finished." A black face obscured the ceiling. Gentle hands lifted the blanket and removed the bedpan. "How long?" The face that was about to disappear from view halted within my field of vision. Bushy eyebrows arched their acknowledgement. "You mean how long you been here or how long you gonna stay?"
PRIVATE SCREENING
"How long am I going to stay?" "Till the doctor says you're okay, I guess." "Thanks." "Uh-huh." The face completed its retreat and the neat ceiling was drowned beneath the tears that welled in my eyes. My own visions supplanted the blankness in front of me. Once more I heard the door of my bedroom burst open. Shadowy figures rushed in. There was a sudden, painful flood of light. "Don't make a move, Touzani! Don't even breathe!" I felt the cold barrel of a police-issue handgun against my head. The hammer was pulled back with a loud, ratchety click. "I am arresting you on charges of incitement to commit perjury and "This is my way of keeping what's rightfully mine." "...you have the right to remain silent Al, helpless, frightened, tosses me a pair of pants. "Here, put these on." I'm out in the darkness, handcuffed and half-naked, pushed staggering into the back of a police-car. We swerve and wail through the L.A. streets. "I hope he's all right. Oh please, God, don't let him die. I should never have told him about CBA. I might have known his heart wouldn't take it." And then the blinding light. Something in my head giving way. A dam bursting. A steel cable, stretched to final thinness in its effort to hold everything together snaps and the two ends whiplash like flailing arms. "Leave me alone! Get away from me you sons-of-bitches! Let me out of here! Let me out!" Blood on my knuckles. Something hard hits my face and I feel wetness. My arms held fast. I feel the prick of a needle. "That ought to hold the son-of-a-bitch!" And then the bed. The wonderful bed with its wonderful American ceiling that is once again slowly swimming into view. Now at last the fight is over. My hands and arms are strapped lovingly so that they will no longer do me harm; I cannot move my head to discover what is best left unseen. America will clothe and feed me. America will bring the bedpan when I yell. As long as I cause no trouble, America will see that I never have to struggle again. God bless America.
10
2 . BILL
Several years earlier in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Birgit and I were about to begin our nightly routine. For me, this was a pretty straightforward business which began with the grand ceremony of putting on my pajamas and culminated a few minutes later with the ritual cleaning of the teeth. The form of this ritual was very simple but its practice was nearly always complicated by one major problem: although I nearly always knew where my toothbrush was, I never knew where Birgit had put the toothpaste. On this particular night, the toothpaste was not too difficult to locate. After a short search of the surrounding area, I finally spotted it next to her make-up on a low table by the wall. "You're slipping, Birgit," I muttered. "Any fool can tell the difference between toothpaste and hair-remover." I checked the tube, just to make sure I wasn't the one fool who couldn't tell the difference, and then tried to squeeze it onto my brush. Predictably, nothing happened. "God damn!" I growled. "Why does she always leave the cap off?" The paste had dried to a solid barrier, blocking the nozzle. I rolled up the end of the tube tightly, forcing its contents upwards and then crushed it angrily. There was a split-second's resistance and then the toothpaste spurted out onto my brush, my hand, the washbasin and the bathroom floor. "God damn!" I threw down the tube in disgust. In most respects, Birgit, like just about every other German I'd ever met, was methodical and meticulous and had a keen eye for detail. We had been together for over three years and, as time passed, we had both fallen into the sort of mutual compromises that all couples are obliged to make. But replacing the cap on the toothpaste still remained a bone of contention. Nothing that I could say or do seemed to make the slightest difference. It was a habit that could not be explained in con-
11
PRIVATE SCREENING
ventional terms: it was just one of those unaccountable phenomena like UFOs or the Loch Ness Monster. "Birgit!" I shouted. "For God's sake! When will you learn to put the cap back on? Now I have to clean the whole goddamned sink!" B now, protests of this sort had become so common that Birgit y didn't even bother replying. I know, " I continued, "it's about time some genius invented a self-sealing tube. They'd make a fortune out of you girls." Birgit was sitting in the kitchen waiting for me to finish. Ours was one of those small one-bedroom apartments that optimized the art of conversation: if you whispered in the john, your voice carried clear to the living-room. "It's already been invented, Bill," she replied, calmly. "But some of us girls are just plain old-fashioned, I guess." "What do you mean, it's already been invented?" "It's easy to see who does the shopping around here. They're upright tubes with a flat base and a sort of dispenser top. Been around for years." "Really?" I sighed, taking a sponge and dabbing half-heartedly at the mess on the floor. "Yes, really." "That's a shame," I said. "We could've patented it and made ourselves a fortune." "Like your three-sided toothbrush, you mean?" "That was a damned good idea!" "No, it wasn't. Oh, Ill admit that it saved a lot of work - you could clean your teeth on all sides with one stroke - no problem. The trouble was you had to keep your mouth open all the time and anyone who used it ended up drooling like the town idiot. You'd have needed to invent a drip-tray to go with it!" "Okay, point taken." Birgit went to get herself a drink. This was always a job that she approached with a certain degree of trepidation. The door of the fridge was invariably crammed with crushed, half-empty cola bottles and she never knew which one was going to fall out. This time, she managed to open the door slowly and found only one bottle which appeared to have taken a savage blow to its midriff and was bent over in pain. As she reached for it, the bottle toppled forward, fell to the ground and exploded into its original'shape. Birgit gave a short cry and jumped backwards as if a rat had sprung at her. "You okay?" I shouted, pausing in my dabbing.
12
There was a moment's silence. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay," "What happened?" "One of your damn bottles again." "Sorry." "Sorry? One of these days they'll give me a heart-attack," she gasped. "Look, Bill, make a deal with you. buy you a self-sealing tube of toothpaste if you stop buying those two-liter bottles that always go flat o n you." "It's too expensive to buy little cans," I objected. "Forget the toothpaste - if somebody invented a bottle that shrank as you used it they'd make a fortune for sure." "It's already been done." "Oh, come on!" I exclaimed. "Next you'll be telling me that some guy's come up with everlasting chewing gum." "No, I'm serious," she said. "There is a bottle that collapses down. My father used them t o store photographic chemicals when I was a kid. The sides of them were...how do you say?...fluted kind of like a bellows. Whenever h e dispensed fixer or developer, h e collapsed them down t o eliminate the air. That way the chemicals didn't get contaminated." She's right, you know, I said to myself, I've heard of those bottles. Why don't the soft drinks companies use them? I can't be the only person who hates flat cola. Maybe I wasn't the only person but I couldn't imagine anyone else allowing such a minor irritation to reach the level of a n all- consuming obsession a n obsession that had now been with me for more than a year, intruding on my daily activities and haunting my nights. Basically it was a frustratingly simple matter: how t o prevent the loss of carbon dioxide from my favorite soda-pop once the plastic bottle had been broached. After every drink I would squeeze the sides of the bottle, forcing its contents up towards the screw-cap to occupy the empty space. When the space was filled and the air was evacuated I would screw the cap down tightly and replace the bottle in the refrigerator. The soda-pop remained as fresh and sparkling as it had been when the bottle was first opened. So, in fact, the whole story began with fizz. Bubbles. Effervescence. That was the first, brief, almost irrelevant spark that kindled my inventiveness. It was fizz, or lack of it, that initially inspired me to devise a new and better way of storing liquids and foodstuffs and set me o n a
13
PRIVATE SCREENING
path which was t o lead through commercial success t o a wilderness of greed, petty jealousies and legal chicanery. The first step along that path had been t o wonder how cola lost its fizz in the first place. That was easy. You just took the cap off the bottle, walked away and left it for a few hours. Or drank half of it, resealed the bottle and left it in the refrigerator overnight. Or maybe the bottle wasn't properly sealed in the first place and you just got a nasty surprise. The second step was to confront the question of why cola lost its fizz. That was slightly trickier. First of all I had to consider what caused it: bubbles. Tens of thousands of tiny bubbles. Without them the drink was undrinkable. Without them several vast, multinational business empires would never have existed. Every day, all over the world, millions of people spent millions of dollars on billions of bubbles. And where did these bubbles go? That was easy too. They rose rapidly through the liquid and burst. Now nobody, except perhaps an employee of a soft drinks company, would ever have regarded loss of fizz as a major problem in his life. It was one of those minor irritations like somebody leaving the cap off your tube of toothpaste or the fearsome combination of hard butter and soft bread. For people like me, however, there were only three possible alternatives: either they could go mad, they could learn t o live with it or they could do something about it. Doing something about it, of course, was by n o means as easy as it sounded. I would lie awake at night turning the problem over and over in my mind. It occupied my thoughts when I was driving t o and from work and I ought t o have been concentrating o n the traffic. When someone said "Are you listening to me?" I would realize that I wasn't and somehow it was difficult t o admit to them that I was thinking about bubbles. Gradually, over the months, my obsession had matured and ripened. I realized that if I succeeded in finding a solution, I would have found an answer to a problem that confronted millions of people every day. They were not obsessed, as I was. They might not even be grateful for my discovery. But they would benefit and they would buy. I finally finished cleaning my teeth a n d replaced my one-sided toothbrush in its holder. Birgit brushed past me and began to run her bath. I went into the living room, switched o n the TV and prepared myself for a long wait.
14
By a strange coincidence, the movie that evening was The Man In The White Suit. A thirty-seven year-old Alec Guinness was playing an idealistic chemist who had invented a fabric that was indestructible and never got dirty. Yet far from making him an international hero, as he had imagined, his invention opened a Pandora's Box of petty jealousies, resentment and spite. It was an object-lesson for any would-be inventor and it immediately set me thinking again. At first it had seemed clear that if the manufacturers of soda-pop could have thought of a way of keeping their product fresh and fizzy they'd have wasted n o time in patenting the method. By now, there'd have been some product - probably going under a name such as Stafizz or Everpop - which would have reached the status of a household word. On the other hand, just as The Man In The White Suit had instantly incurred the enmity of the clothing trade, wasn't it possible that such a n invention would have spelled financial disaster for the soft drinks business? After all, what did you do with cola when it went flat? The answer was that you poured it down the sink and bought a new bottle. You sure as hell couldn't cook with it. Wasn't it just conceivable that the major manufacturers had the perfect solution to loss of fizz and were deliberately refusing to exploit it? Perhaps my obsession was finally turning t o paranoia. Years before, someone had once told me that a major oil company owned the patent for an engine that ran on water. It was one of those modern myths that come to you via the friend of a friend of the next door neighbor of some guy who once worked there for a week or two and it probably had about as much truth to it as the tale of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. Wasn't this new theory of mine just as dumb? The film ended and The Johnny Carson Show started. After the first five minutes, I realized that I was laughing by myself and I began to wonder if Birgit could hear any of the jokes. "Everything okay?" There was n o reply. "I said is everything okay?" There was a faint splashing sound from the bathroom. The briefest rippling of water. Bubbles. "What did you say?" "I asked you if everything was okay." "Sure. Sixty thousand dollars down the drain. Why shouldn't it be okay?" I didn't answer. She had a right to be depressed, I thought. She'd put all she had into our import business. The Marrakesh Boutique had
15
PRIVATE SCREENING
soaked up vast amounts of time, energy and money and still it had failed. "Sixty thousand dollars," she repeated. "In seven months! It's got to be some sort of record." "Okay, okay. You win. Ill take the job in San Francisco." It was a carefully-judged remark: she'd been dreaming of California for a long time and of all the job offers I'd had, from the four corners of the United States, it was the only one that really excited her. "San Francisco!" I heard her grumble in the bathroom. "Why don't we just cut our losses and go for Munich?" I knew what she was aiming at, of course: her father, a regional manager for the Varta company, would have been very pleased to have found me a nice, cosy job in a German firm. But having been a customer engineer at Siemens, I'd already done my bit for the Fatherland, thank you. "If you think I want to dive back into the barracks atmosphere of a European company you're very much mistaken." Birgit didn't reply. Perhaps, like me, she'd realized that the conversation would lead to nothing. She had a point. I'd just resigned from being the marketing director of a large radiological company and our situation wasn't exactly flourishing. This was putting a further strain on an already strained relationship. She probably expected something better of me something exciting which would help us over our quarrels - something to make her forget her sixty thousand dollars. There was an idea slumbering inside me that just might satisfy her. It was dozing away quietly in a forgotten winding of my brain. It would only take the right sort of nudge to awaken it... The next morning I parked my Thunderbird in front of the Marrakesh Boutique on State Street. Our import store was directly across from the Ann Arbor Inn. It was one of the best hotels in town and boasted a clientele that was mostly made up of stewardesses and pilots from several national and international airlines. Such a location would usually have meant a booming business but we had been dogged by bad luck. We'd opened our store on the eve of one of the hardest winters that Michigan had experienced in many years. 1984 saw an immense front of freezing weather sweep down from Canada. Its severity took everyone by surprise and even the simple act of crossing the street had been a major expedition. Except for the relatively brief pre-Christmas rush, our business had been slowly
16
dying from the moment we set it up. Now huge 'Liquidation' signs were pasted over the windows and we had notified our landlord that we would be leaving at the end of the month. Our only clients, lately, had been the usual vultures bent on getting a good deal out of somebody else's misfortunes. These were definitely sad times for us and, when I was in town, I would usually seek refuge at the Palm Tree, a Lebanese restaurant further down the street. On this particular day, Birgit had got no further than turning on the lights before I excused myself. "I'm going to the Palm Tree," I muttered. Ill see you later." I headed off towards the restaurant but, on a sudden impulse, I decided to make a detour. I stopped at the photography shop on the corner and requested a half-gallon-sized, bellowed, collapsible bottle. "How much?" I asked. "Sixteen ninety-five." Now I knew why the soft drinks companies had never adopted the design. At that price, Coke would have become as expensive as champagne. "That much?" The thing didn't weigh more than five ounces at most. Finally I realized, of course, that a bottle was a bottle, no matter what shape it was. This one was equipped with the very simplest of screw-top closures and I was sure that somebody, somewhere, was making a considerable killing. What made the price so high was no more than the basic law of supply and demand: this being a very specialized product, with limited uses, the profit margin needed to be proportionately that much greater. Although the Palm Tree restaurant wasn't yet open, the door was unlocked and I walked straight in. I said "Hi" to Namey and Dawn, who owned the place and were good friends of ours, and immediately walked behind the counter to the soft drinks dispenser. I half-filled the bottle. Namey and Dawn, who were busy in the kitchen preparing Keftas, felafel and pitta bread, stared at me. "What the hell is that?" asked Namey. "Oh, Ill tell you later." I replied. I certainly didn't want to tell him then. I carefully compressed the bottle until I could see the surface of the liquid and then screwed the cap down tight. "Hey, Dawn," I said, as casually as possible. "Could you give me two take-out coffees, please?"
17
PRIVATE SCREENING
I walked back to the boutique with both my hands full and, once inside, I put everything on the counter. Birgit was talking to a smartlydressed man in his thirties and I immediately had the feeling that I was interrupting a serious discussion. "That's a cute bottle," said the smartly-dressed man in what was unmistakably a French accent. He referred to my bottle in much the same way as he might have spoken of a pet poodle. "What is it?" he added. "It's supposed to be for photographic solutions," I explained, "but I have Coke in it." Although he seemed to accept this as a reasonable explanation I thought I owed it to myself to go into a few details. "Just a bit of private research I'm pursuing," I continued. "I thought the bottle might prevent carbonation from escaping but it seems to have sprung back to its original shape. Maybe the cap isn't airtight." "It's not the air," said Birgit, unexpectedly. "You remember that bottle you left in the fridge last night? It dropped on the floor right? and it expanded all by itself. It's caused by the gas inside the bottle, not the air coming in." She took it from me, twisted the cap tight and shook it. To our amazement, the bottle continued to expand until it had almost doubled its original size. Before very long, it started to resemble a two-foot sausage and the bellows was stretched to the point where it looked like it might burst at any moment. "I think I'd better empty this before someone gets hurt," I said and took it behind the shelter of a dividing wall. There was a sink there with a small mirror above it. As I started pouring the liquid away, I happened to glance up and saw the reflection of a girl who was about to try on a brilliant red dress. She was a tall brunette in her twenties and, although I couldn't place it, her face was not totally unfamiliar. The curtain of her changing- cubicle was half open and she was clad only in her underwear but she seemed not to have noticed me and even when it became quite obvious that she had noticed me she made no attempt to draw the curtain or cover herself up. By this time, I was holding the bottle under my arm and pouring it out seemed to take forever but not long enough. Finally, however, I decided that some standards of professionalism had to be maintained, whether the store was closing down or not, and I returned to Birgit and the smartly-dressed visitor. Moreover, I was becoming increasingly
18
curious as to why the Frenchman was spending so much time talking t o Birgit and not looking at the merchandise. "Jacques here comes from New York," she explained. "He's been asking me about our Louis Vuitton bags." I had a sudden urge t o speak to him in French and ask him where h e came from. Frankly I wasn't particularly interested but it seemed the only way of avoiding what promised to be an uncomfortable subject. Something told me, however, that there would be n o escaping it. "Can I call you Bill?" asked Jacques. "Sure," I said. "Just don't call me after work." Jacques smiled politely. "I just want to ask you where you got the bags," he said. "It's not that I want to purchase them. Ill tell you straight off I work for Louis Vuitton a n d I'm investigating any products bearing our name that might not be genuine." "Don't our bags look genuine?" I asked. "Well, since you ask, no. They're of excellent quality all right and I can't put my finger o n any imperfections but I do know they aren't ours." "Ah!" I exclaimed. "Well, as you can see, we do carry many different lines here: mostly imports. The majority of the products were purchased from wholesalers in Lower Manhattan." "It's okay. I believe you, Bill." said Jacques, nodding his head understandingly. "It's just that one of your purses was sold to a stewardess who brought it to the attention of a licensed retailer at Kennedy Airport. He, in turn, communicated the information to us and...well... here I am." "Well, I'm sorry you had to come so far for so little," I replied. "At the time I bought them I didn't know they were imitations a n d I bought only a small quantity of Louis Vuitton and Cartier goods as test samples. I'm surprised you'd bother with small fry like us anyway." I bother with everyone," said Jacques. "Patent and trade mark infringements are a serious matter for us and we have to do our best to protect all our legitimate customers. But, since you're clearly going out of business anyway, it looks as though my investigation ends here." That was quite a relief but his mention of patents had whetted my curiosity. Birgit a n d I had been talking about them only the night before and here was an opportunity to get some information from an expert. "Tell me, Jacques," I began. "What sort of patents could you have o n products like these?"
19
PRIVATE SCREENING
"Well, we have hundreds of what are called design patents. Those have to do with the aesthetic of our purses - basically the shape of the whole article or of sections of it. The protection on it is good for a few years but it can be extended." "But wouldn't somebody be able to change the shape of some small feature and get away from your protection?" "You're right" he said. "It's not at all foolproof. That's why we rely on our trade mark for protection. To millions of people around the world an 'L.V.' symbol is a sign of quality and status." "Even though the bag is mostly made of plastic?" 1 laughed. "Yes." "Well, I'm really disappointed," I admitted. "I never thought that something as simple as a company logo would provide more protection than a patent." "It's not always the case," said Jacques. "There are other kinds of patents, called utility patents, that are a lot more effective and valuable and are good for seventeen years in the States - twenty in most other countries. Those, however, deal with a specific function that the invention performs: something that allows an existing product or an old product to perform differently." "Differently?You mean not necessarily better?" "Not necessarily better, no. Take, for instance, this bottle that you brought with you. If you made it larger, with a wider mouth and hung it from a shoulder-strap, you could probably sell it as a purse. Naturally, you would look like you were carrying a trash can around with you but, because of the rippled sidewall, you'd probably be issued a design patent for it. Now, if you could press this purse down and make it lock at different levels to adjust its size to your needs, you'd be entitled to a utility patent which would give you a much broader protection and unlimited design possibilities." "That's interesting," I said. "But I don't think I'd ever buy a bellowed purse anyway." "That's just the point," replied Jacques. "Because something is new and original and you patent it, it doesn't necessarily follow that it'll be commercially successful. That, as they say, is quite another ball-game." Lately I had become an inveterate sketcher and scrawler, covering notebooks, magazines and the tablecloths of every restaurant in Michigan with cryptic drawings. It was ironic that, after all this agonizing, a chance remark from Birgit had furnished me with a principle that
20
seemed to meet all my requirements. Moreover it was a principle which was already hundreds of years old: the bellows. With its sides of equal conical sections, the bellows is still employed in many ways today. Its ability to fold neatly into a small space was its most obvious advantage but its tendency to spring back again when released constituted my major headache and always brought me back to square one. This property was precisely what I didn't want. I wanted the bellows, once compressed, to stay compressed until it was drawn out manually. Birgit was in the bathroom again. I was watching The Johnny Carson Show - in bed this time. To say I was 'watching' Johnny Carson is not exactly true: to be more precise I was listening to him while I filled yet another notebook with sketches. I was about to give up for the night. I flicked through the notebook to review what I'd done and I was on the point of shutting it when I happened to glance at one of my earlier sketches where I had been toying with the idea of a bellows with a saw-tooth configuration. There was something oddly familiar about it but I couldn't think what it was. Somewhere in the hidden windings of my brain, the sleeping idea stirred. I jumped up from the bed, ran to a drawer in the kitchen and pulled out a box of colored straws - the same sort of flexible straws that you find in fast-food restaurants the world over. I pushed the flexible section together. It stayed in place. I bent it over as if I'd just put it in a glass and was about to drink. It didn't draw itself out. I found a magnifying glass and examined the flexible section minutely. As I'd expected, the bellows was uneven. Instead of being V-shaped, the sections were constructed on a saw-tooth principle which allowed the smaller sides to collapse under pressure. I stared at the straw for what seemed close to an eternity. I didn't even dare touch it in case it sprang at my face like a jack-in-the-box. With growing excitement, I grabbed a pen and sketched a tiny bottle on the straw so that the flexible section occupied the central area. That was it! I had it! "Good God! Why didn't I think of this before?" I must have used thousands of the things, day in, day out, in the hospital canteens I visited and I'd never realized that it possessed the exact properties I needed for my plastic bottle. There it was, right before my eyes: the ideal latching system! A simple succession of long and short sides.
21
PRIVATE SCREENING
It was precisely at that moment that Birgit came out of the bathroom. Before she'd had time to dive into bed and switch out the light, I held up my straw, carefully masking the top and bottom so that only the area showing my roughly-sketched bottle was exposed. I watched her as she studied it. At last she looked back to me and then, to my great satisfaction, she, who had always made fun of my crumpled-up bottles, had to admit that a container manufactured to this principle could change the future of humanity. Or at least the future of Cokeaddicts. The following morning I contacted a lawyer specializing in patents. Mr Jeims Deimen, who was an engineer as well as a patent lawyer, turned out to be a pleasant man in his forties. He listened to my explanations in silence, turning my straw over and over in his hands. "See how the bellows locks?" I said. "If you look closely you can see a sequence of short and long sections. Under pressure the shorter sections will give way and snap inwards." "Uh-huh," he grunted. "And you want to use this principle for bottles, right?" "Yes." "Well, as far as I know there isn't a bottle like this in existence today. I have seen several toys that employ the principle though." "What sort of toys?" "Dolls mostly. I don't mean the traditional girl's doll necessarily but dolls with extendible bending arms and legs." I felt a twinge of disappointment. "Surely if the technology already exists, there's no point in applying for a patent," I said. "Well, be careful there. You haven't reinvented the wheel, you know. Very few people do nowadays. It would be a patent for the technology as it applies to a specific application - in your case a soft drink bottle." "You mean like putting a bellows on a purse?" "What?" "Never mind. It's a long story." "I doubt very much that anyone's thought of a latching bottle. However, it might be safer to have a patent search done just to make sure. Five hundred dollars ought to cover it." Mr Deimen told me that the preparation and registration of a patent would cost me only a thousand dollars. I took the risk of doing without the search.
22
"Okay," he said. "Come back and see me in two weeks. Your draft will be drawn up by then." The next day I flew off to Geneva, Switzerland, to carry out my final assignment as marketing director of Computerized Imaging before Birgit and I were to drive off to San Francisco. The 1984 Geneva trade fair was the biggest I'd ever taken part in: the most revolutionary technological innovations in the world were spread over literally acres of floor space. Among them were the CT scanners, commonly known as CAT scanners marvels of engineering which enable every part of the human body to be examined without having recourse to surgery. They were the dream of every hospital. For the bigger hospitals, a scanner could be an absolute goldmine. Although it generally cost upwards of a million dollars, its purchase price was paid off within one or two years, by which time the hospital regarded it as an embarrassing, out-of-date encumbrance and wanted to replace it with the latest generation - still more sophisticated and even more imposing. This was where Computerized Imaging came in. We were a company specializing in the purchase of second-hand scanners. We would buy back the out-of-date hardware from hospitals in the United States and either resell it to private hospitals or to countries which were less choosy about their technology. As I was one of the relatively few engineers in the world to have been trained on several different models produced by the biggest manufacturers, my experience provided Computerized Imaging with their best guarantee of finding new markets. Our stand in Geneva stood directly opposite that of General Electric the world leader in this technology. I knew the international director of this company very well. An American of Lebanese origin, he was a friendly, approachable man whom I'd first met when working for G.E.. He was surprised to see me in Geneva. When I told him my reason for being there, he didn't conceal his amusement. "Oh, yes! Computerized Imaging!" he laughed. "So you sold out for General Electric's trash-can!" He hadn't really meant to be offensive but I was a little irritated by his gibe all the same. Fortunately it wasn't long before I had a chance to get my own back. Among the visitors to the Geneva trade-fair was a ministerial delegation from the state of Brunei. I noticed them making their way towards the General Electric stand amidst a cloud of journalists and
23
PRIVATE SCREENING
photographers and I managed to put myself in their way and divert them to our pavilion. It took me no more than ten minutes to convince the rulers of the richest kingdom in the world that they had every reason to buy second-hand scanners - much to the chagrin of General Electric. It was not a little absurd that my official title of marketing director represented my first position ever in marketing or sales. On the plus side, my lack of education and experience in these two fields was easily compensated for by my high level of technical expertise: especially in an area where you were selling state-of-the-art machinery with a market-value of a quarter of a million dollars and you were claiming - not without justification - that it was worth a million. Although my customers could easily detect any indication of a hard sell, they were also sophisticated and alert enough to realize that, located in countries such a Egypt or Greece, relying on a maintenance team that came all the way from New York was not exactly the best way of doing business. It was entirely my expert technical opinion that made the difference in this type of situation. "Mohammed", I would say, or maybe Yannis or Osman or Hussein, "this system here cost one million dollars new three years ago. It comes from a hospital in New Jersey which is upgrading to the latest generation this year. They're not getting rid of it because it's faulty or unreliable but just because they want the latest and greatest to keep the economy moving. Our machines use two general-purpose computers. If one of them breaks down it'll only take a few more seconds to get your pictures up on the screen: you won't be totally out of business. I can assure you that what worked well for the Americans three years ago will work very satisfactorily for you today." "Mr Touzani," Mohammed would reply, "believe me I have no intention of following America's example. My country is poor, as you know, and to be able to claim that we are'only three years behind would be a big step forward for our hospital system." But it's sometimes hard to make a distinction between what people need to buy and what you want them to buy. While I could see that a CAT scanner would undoubtedly save lives in Egypt, tying up so much of their badly-needed money in one piece of equipment constituted a considerable moral commitment on our part and our service would have to live up to their expectations. To put it simply, I did believe in what I was selling: feeling otherwise would have been criminal. This was my first formal marketing experience but I soon became very comfortable with it. I was selling a technology that might be need-
24
ed tomorrow or in ten years time to people who were suspicious, wary and reluctant to take risks. If they were lucky, or if they had made the correct judgement, the rewards could be significant. The situation would be very similar when it came to marketing my bottle. At that time, it struck me as pretty ironic that I was trying to breathe a second life into my CAT scanners while my bottle had still not been born. I was by no means an expert in plastics or in packaging, but my training in sales and marketing would allow me to approach those new areas with a certain degree of confidence and something in me told me that I would be dealing with the same sort of customers. During my stay in Switzerland, relations between Mr Cohen, the president of Computerized Imaging, and myself became increasingly friendly. This was to be my last assignment for the company and he certainly did everything in his power to make me go back on my decision to resign. His final bid came towards the end of my stay as we were walking along the shore of Lake Geneva. "Listen, Bill," he said, taking me by the arm and fixing me with an anxious look. "You've got a brilliant career ahead of you if you stay with us. Why don't you think it over for a while? We have an interesting job lined up for you." I should have known that this flattery was hiding something. I let it come. "It's in Iran," he continued. "General Electric abandoned two new scanners there when the Islamic revolution broke out and we need you to install them. You'd be doing us - and yourself - a big favor. The Iranians have put the job out to tender internationally but we could make them an offer they couldn't refuse - if you accept the job." I didn't reply. What did I care about Iran? What did I care about General Electric's scanners? The whole business was potentially very uncertain, not to say risky: there was a distinct possibility that I might be taken for a spy and I had no particular desire to act the part of a hostage in some American-Iranian super-production. He seemed to have read my thoughts. "I think you'd make out very well over there," he said. "You've got a lot of professional experience in the Arab world and nights in Harlem can be a damned sight more dangerous than nights in Tehran." But the plane that finally took me from Switzerland headed west, not east. I could only think about one thing and that was getting back to Birgit as soon as possible.
25
PRIVATE SCREENING
The 747 touched down at nightfall on a waterlogged runway. In Detroit it seemed to have been raining continuously ever since I'd left. The taxi that took me downtown crossed shining avenues, throwing up great gouts of dirty water on every street-corner. It was all so very different from the neat, polished orderliness of Switzerland. Here the wet pavement did not reflect blue shies and snow-capped peaks but garish advertising signs and the neon lights of nightclubs welcoming their first clients. Only one thing seemed to have changed since I'd left: judging by the number of cars sold in two weeks, as recorded on a huge, constantly updated, illuminated hoarding off the freeway to Ann Arbor, Mr Iacocca's pocketbook was overflowing. I knew that something was wrong as soon as I entered our apartment. Where the painting by Hopper had once hung on the wall of our living-room, there was now a bright, rectangular patch from which hung cobwebs and wispy scraps of lint. The Berber jewelry had gone. The little table that Birgit had brought back from a trip to North-Africa had also taken flight. "The bastards! They've taken... I never finished the sentence. A much more bitter truth dawned on me. Only Birgit's things had gone. The closets in our bedroom contained only my clothes. There was not a single dress remaining, not a single shred of her clothing. The corner of our bathroom where she kept her innumerable beauty-products was hopelessly empty. Before I'd left for Geneva, she'd told me that she was going to spend some time with a girlfriend in Philadelphia. That might have accounted for the clothes but it didn't explain the furniture. I pounced on the telephone. "Inga? It's Bill. Is Birgit at your place?" Inga's voice sounded embarrassed, nervous. "Well...she was at my place, Bill. She left." The voice at the other end of the line hesitated. "She's gone home, Bill. She's gone back to Germany." There was nothing more to be said. Dumbly, I replaced the receiver and took my first uncertain steps towards trying to face the fact that Birgit had erased herself from my life. Everything that had arguably belonged to her had been removed. None of my own possessions had been taken - not even as a souvenir. The only thing that had been stolen from me was the promise of a future. I was shattered. I spent day after day wandering aimlessly through the half-empty rooms. Outside, the city resounded with the echo of Birgit's voice, with the sound of her feet on the sidewalk, with her
26
laughter. I didn't dare go out. I couldn't stand the idea of walking alone where we had once walked together. At last I escaped from my self-imposed confinement t o seek the comfort of Dawn and Namey at the Palm Tree restaurant. "I knew it was only a matter of time before you two decided to take a break from each other," said Dawn. "There was a lot of tension with your failing business and all. Birgit had had enough she told me so." It was yet a further cruelty that I, who loved Birgit so much, had never realized that her decision to leave had been taken so long before. I left Dawn and Namey's restaurant and entered a milkbar next door. It wasn't a good choice of refuge - the room was empty and depressing and matched my mood entirely. Mechanically I ordered a milkshake and drank it down without really wanting to. I stared at the last remnants of froth sliding down the inside of the glass. What now? "Hi there!" It was the waitress, a pretty brunette in her twenties whose face was disturbingly familiar. "I haven't seen you in a long while," she said. "Not since your shop closed down." So that was who she was: the girl who had been trying on the brilliant red dress and hadn't bothered to draw the curtain. I was astonished a t her interest. I didn't know her a t all but her concern was exactly what I needed then. Maybe I also wanted t o put an end to my solitude. "Would you like to have dinner with me this evening?" "Sure," she replied. "Just give me time to turn my apron in." The next morning I went to see Jeims Deimen. He had completed the work o n my patent application and needed my signature before forwarding it to Washington. "Well, there's your collapsible bottle, Bill," he said, handing me the complete specifications. Ill leave you alone to check it out." He left the room and I began my examination of the draft. I was amazed. I had given him a plastic straw and a principle. What h e was showing me now were not only detailed drawings of my bottle but also a long and highly technical description of exactly how it was t o be constructed. In fact the description was so technical that I hardly understood a word of it. All the same, I was proud of my creation. It did, indeed, look like something to be proud of. I was also full of admiration for Mr Deimen's expertise.
27
PRIVATE SCREENING
"Does everything seem to be in order?" he asked me, as he reentered the room. He probably knew very well how meaningless the question was. If something in the application had been totally wrong, I wouldn't have known enough to detect it. "Sure," I replied, and he looked relieved all the same. "I'd just like to point out," he continued, "that the commercial value of your patent lies in the claims at the end. You'll find eighteen of them. Claim one is the main claim and then it breaks down into seventeen sub-claims just in case the examiner thinks we've been too broad." "I noticed that," I said. "I also noticed that you haven't mentioned the word 'soft drink' in any of them." He chuckled drily. "Well, that's quite deliberate," he said. "I did use soft drinks as an example to establish that your invention has practical uses but I kept it off the claims so that you wouldn't be restricted to just one use." "I think I see your point," I said. "So if someone has invented the same bottle to be used for, say, wine, the examiner might then insist on our adding the words 'soft drink'. Otherwise it's best not to be so narrow." "Correct." I signed the application, took possession of my copy and placed it carefully in my attach6 case. When I had mentioned wine it had simply slipped off my tongue but somebody must certainly have been concerned about keeping the stuff fresh when they'd invented wine-in-the-box. Suddenly the potential of my invention seemed limitless. I went straight back to my apartment and started shifting my belongings into a Jartran rental truck. Then I drove to Donna's parent's place and while her mother took down the address of my future employer in San Francisco, my girlfriend of a few hours loaded her suitcases. A few minutes later we were barreling along together towards California.
28
3 . DONNA
And so I became the latest in a long line of new Americans to undertake the long journey west. It was a journey that began with a sense of excitement and anticipation. For me, as for millions of people the world over, the Golden State had always symbolized everything that was best and most desirable about the American Dream. I had been there before on a few occasions to install planetariums s but my work had rarely allowed me much time for sight-seeing. A I oscillated between a planetarium that looked pretty much like any other planetarium and a hotel-room that could have been in San Francisco, Boston or Yokohama, it had sometimes been difficult to believe that I was in California at all. In spite of the hurt she'd inflicted on me, I felt sorry for Birgit: California had meant just as much to her as it meant to me and now she was back in Europe without ever having sampled the best that America had to offer. Without any disrespect to Donna, I would have much preferred Birgit's company - either as a wife or, failing that, as my best friend. During the three hours that it took to reach Chicago I got to know a little more about the girl that was traveling with me. Donna was not, as I had thought, in her twenties. To be more exact, she was almost twenty. An abandoned child, she'd been taken in by an uncle and aunt who owned a small doughnut business in Ann Arbor. It was not a particularly prosperous business and Donna had had to give up a promising university career to help out financially. Since then she had drifted from job to job until she washed up in the milkbar where I met her, and from where she'd sometimes caught sight of Birgit and me walking along the street. It was clear that she'd had a crush on me for quite some time and when I'd suggested that she fulfilled an old high-school fantasy by running off to California, she'd had n o qualms about accepting my offer.
29
PRIVATE SCREENING
Our journey went smoothly until we encountered the immense flatlands of Nebraska. It was there that I noticed the police car in my rear-view mirror. He wasn't the first cop we'd seen and initially I didn't pay him much attention but instead of passing us, as I'd expected him to do, he drew level with us, observed us carefully and then slid back into the traffic to take up a position a few yards from our rear fender. I wondered what was interesting him. There wasn't anything special about our Jartran truck: it was by no means an old vehicle and, as far as I knew, there were no pieces hangingoff that might have done injury to some innocent Nebraskan. Perhaps he wasn't interested at all. Perhaps his curious maneuver had nothing to do with us. But ten minutes later he was still there and I was becoming increasingly nervous. I put my foot on the gas to see if he followed suit. He did. I slowed down again. He slowed down too. No doubt about it: he wasn't giving an inch. Donna's mother was suspicious of me! She'd reported me for kidnapping! I was going to be arrested and charged with corrupting a minor! I was transporting Donna across a state line for immoral purposes! Goodbye, Donna! Goodbye, California dream! It was a hot day and I was getting hotter. If he stopped me and saw me sweating like that he was bound to suspect something. I switched on the air-conditioning. At first there was a musty odor like you find in a room that's been sealed for a long time. Then there was a shower of sparks from the airconditioning unit, followed by a series of loud crackles. Finally the unmistakablearoma of roasting plastic invaded the passenger compartment. I swung onto the hard shoulder of the freeway. The cop followed immediately, touching us fender to fender. I jumped down and lifted the hood. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him walk round and join me. "You got a problem, sir?" He never said a truer word. At that precise moment a large flame licked up through the radiator-grille. "Get back!" yelled the cop. He sprinted to his car and returned a few seconds later with a fireextinguisher. He pulled the lever. Nothing happened. He shook the extinguisher and pulled the lever again. Again nothing. Empty. Visibly overtaken by events, the poor cop stared at his extinguisher with an impotent, contrite air. I didn't have time to sympathize with him.
30
Woooff! A scorching blast threw us back a good ten feet. "Donna!" I screamed. Whatre you playing at? Get the hell out of that truck!" Donna dived into the ditch. Behind us the siren of the police car began to wail. There didn't seem to be too much point to that since our truck was already stationary and unlikely ever to go much further. Maybe it was standard procedure in cases of fire. The only constructive measure the cop did take - in fact the only really constructive measure he had taken up till then - was to call the fire department. As he was doing that, I tried to rescue my attach6 case from the front seat of the truck but, in the blinking of an eye, flames tore through the interior of the cab and reduced it to cinders. At this point the cop, who had been sitting petrified behind the wheel of his car, decided it might be a fairly prudent idea to move it back. Once he seemed to have taken the decision that the raging infern o in front of him might conceivably be no respecter of the law, he wasted little time in acting on it. By then, the fire must have been visible many miles away. Thick, black smoke was pouring into the quiet, crystal air of Nebraska. Finally the cop's state of shock seemed to be diminishing a little. He ran into the middle of the freeway and began stopping the traffic. Heavy trailer-trucks lined themselves up at the side of the highway with an unbearable screeching of brakes and the whistling exhalations of exhausted animals. With our vehicle threatening to explode at any moment, three truckers with the bodies of Sumo wrestlers ran over brandishing iron bars and set about forcing the rear door. The cop was shouting and gesticulating wildly in his efforts to get them to move away but they ignored him and began an incredible game of catch with anything that came to hand: TV, video, stereo... A shrivelled scrap of brilliant red cloth protruded from a smoldering suitcase, twisted in agony. It was a tragi-comic vision and I burst into laughter - then doubled up coughing and retching. Hands laid hold of me and bundled me onto a stretcher. I was being pushed into a ambulance. An oxygen mask was stuck on my face. Suddenly everything seemed like a dream...an awful nightmare. My last recollection was a surreal image of my computerflying high above me and crashing into the ditch, belly open, its seething entrails overflowing into the dust.
As night was falling, the firemen dropped us at a Holiday Inn by the freeway exit. Because of a simple short-circuit in the air- condition-
31
PRIVATE SCREENING
ing we'd lost everything. But we were alive. I was not charged with kidnapping or starting fires without a permit and I was able to fall asleep in Donna's arms. "It's a pity about my red dress," she whispered before she closed her eyes. "I never did get a chance to wear it."
I had hoped that the rental company would replace our truck within a matter of hours but I reckoned without the beginning of the student vacation. "I'm sorry, Mr Touzani," said the Jartran representative, when I called the next day, "but we just don't have anything available at the moment." "Look," I replied, angrily. "The truck I rented back in Michigan nearly killed the both of us. I think the least you can do is to get a replacement to us right away!" "I'm very sorry about the accident," soothed the representative, "but you must understand that I can't just produce a new truck out of thin air.Ill do my best - you can be assured of that -and Ill get back to you as soon as I know something." It looked as if there was was nothing for it but to wait. Unfortunately a Holiday Inn in an empty, God-forsaken corner of Nebraska was not the best place to do it. We spent the next two days in a state of limbo until finally a new truck turned up at the hotel entrance. I use the word 'new' in the sense of 'fresh' or 'different'. Otherwise there was nothing at all new about our replacement vehicle. On a downward gradient with the wind behind us, we sometimes achieved the tremendous speed of forty or fifty miles an hour but on a level surface the most we could hope for was twenty. After a few hours, Donna and I had the sensation that we were traveling to California as the pioneers had done a hundred years earlier. If we'd spotted an Arapaho raiding party on the skyline I don't think either of us would have been surprised. One thing was certain: if ever we did eventually make it across the great plains, the burning deserts and the high sierras, we would be in California to stay.
San Francisco at last! Welcome pioneers! Suddenly there's Mexican food at every turn. Chinatown, with its hookers and lacquered ducks, mirrors the chaos, the bustle, the fury of Hong Kong. Down at Fisherman's Wharf, Italian fishermen mend their nets in the midst of tourists
32
and street entertainers. Up at Haight-Ashbury belated seekers of the love generation patrol the hippies' graveyard. It was late in the evening as we drove around the downtown area. I had expected that at that time of day the place would be relatively quiet but the streets were crowded with tourists and families enjoying an evening out. It was such a contrast with most American cities I knew: here, as in Europe, it was still considered safe to walk the streets after dark and I thought, once more, that it was a pity that Birgit, who had always complained about the early curfews in Philadelphia, was not there with me. One thing was quite clear: we were going to have a great deal of difficulty in finding good, cheap accommodations in downtown San Francisco at that time of night. We left the carnival atmosphere behind us and headed out of town across the Bay Bridge to the Holiday Inn at Fairfield. At the Hotel California we slept like the dead. I forgot everything: Birgits shadowin the streets of Ann Arbor, the cop in Nebraska, the truckers surrounding my blazing van, Donna's red dress. Tomorrow a new life begins. We needed a place to live. Vallejo seemed to fit the bill. It wasn't far from San Francisco and I wouldn't have to struggle through the rush-hour traffic. Vallejo is a town of some one hundred thousand inhabitants sprawling across the hills on the eastern side of San Pablo Bay. In common with such ports as Norfolk, Baltimore and San Diego, it boasts a major naval base and shipyards. We rented one-half of a one story Victorian house on Capitol Street no more than a hundred yards from the water. From there we could see the huge shipyard cranes on the horizon and watch the comings and goings of warships large and small. The view at the back of the house was considerably more restricted: our kitchen door faced directly onto the entrance of the house behind. There was a young couple living there. Marita was half-Filipino but looked more like a cute Italian girl. Her husband with the gold tooth was also Filipino but he looked as if he'd just leapt from the screen of a martial arts movie and even went under the name of Ninja. If he did have another name, nobody ever found out what it was. To say that Ninja was not the most comfortable of guys to be around was something of an understatement and it was quite a relief to find out that he was a naval officer and spent much of his time at sea.
33
PRIVATE SCREENING
My new employer, American Shared Hospital Services - A.S.H.S. possessed a fleet of about ten General Electric and Siemens mobile CAT scanners. Half of these units were still under guarantee and were thus maintained by the manufacturers. Previously, as an employee of both General Electric and Siemens, I had had to move continuously from hospital to hospital in order to maintain their equipment. Now the boot was on the other foot: it was the scanners themselves that were now moving from one part of California to the other and it was up to me to follow them. I felt like some nomad shepherd chasing after his sheep. Our CAT scanners consisted of trailers containing three separate rooms with interconnecting doors. On entering the trailer, you would first find yourself in the control room where it was a nurse's job to input the necessary data in the computer according to a radiologist's instructions. The scanner itself was in the second room. There the nurse would position the patient on a sliding table and feed him through a pulsating and rotating x-ray tube which irradiated him at a rate of hundreds of pulses to each revolution. The x-rays were produced in the third room by an elaborate system capable of generating up to a hundred thousand volts or more. After passing through the patient, the rays would be translated by the computer and relayed back to the nurse or radiologist as black and white cross- sections of the body on a TV screen. The information gained in this way could then be saved and manipulated in various ways. With repair and maintenance work losing my company roughly three thousand dollars a day and with many patients in a critical condition, it was essential to get a faulty scanner working as speedily as possible. Although I was in the business of saving lives, working in the high-voltage room meant that it was very often my own life that was at risk. Most of the time I could fix breakdowns by making a simple phone call. John, the company nurse, had only to follow my instructions to identify a particular circuit-board that the vibrations of transport had shaken loose. On other occasions, however, when I asked him to open the electronic cabinets, I would have to swear on my mother's head that he wouldn't get electrocuted. Electrocution never seemed to bother Charley, the truck-driver. Charley was a real down-home hillbilly and a former bounty hunter who would not abandon his quarry even if it did mean going into the high-voltage room. His favored prey was usually one of the hookers
34
who hung around the truck-stops where we would often park the trailer to perform some non-emergency work. It occasionally happened that I would be fixing something in the control room while Charley was getting himself fixed in the high-voltage room. "You know, Charley," I once said. "One of these days I'm going to walk in and find you and your lady-friend roasted like shish-kebabs." "Dare say you're right," answered Charley, laconically."Some os these gals is pretty hot stuff." If the scanner happened to be still under warranty it would be Tom's job to suffer the vices of John and Charley but quite often we found ourselves working together on the same trailer. Tom was about my own age and was still living in a hotel. Since we had a two-bedroom apartment and as Siemens, his employer, was no longer picking up his expenses, I offered Tom our spare room until he knew which part of California would be the most suitable for him to live in. I think what finally decided Tom in favor of our offer was the moment he set eyes on Marita. It was love at first leer. However, shortly after moving in, he was surprised to hear the creaking of bed- springs from next-door even though he knew that Ninja was away at sea. A few days later, while cooking in the kitchen, we noticed a couple of sailors entering Maritas house. A little later they both left again. Finally, as I was relaxing in front of the TV one evening, Tom rushed in and shouted: "You bastard! We have a whorehouse out back!" The insult seemed a bit gratuitous: if our neighbor was a professional it certainly wasn't my fault. Besides, looking back on it, I don't know how accurate this observation was. If Marita was a hooker, she certainly wasn't a cheap hooker and she was always very discreet about it. Perhaps she was just a bored housewife who needed a little extra money. Tom set himself the task of finding out for himself. In time he and Marita graduated from chatting in the back garden to having dinner together. As a result, neither he nor Donna and I were any better informed about the exact nature of her activities but it no longer seemed to matter so much and, professional or not, it was clear that Marita was prepared to be benevolent as far as Tom was concerned. Nevertheless, I was not very enthusiastic about Donna's socializing with Marita. For one thing, AIDS was beginning to become an important issue in the San Francisco area and, rightly or wrongly, I didn't want her to run any risks. Finally, there was one thing that amounted to the last straw.
35
PRIVATE SCREENING
"Guess where I was today," Donna asked me one evening when I got home from work. "I don't know," I replied. "Where were you?" She smiled mysteriously. "I had my first interview." "Really?" I exclaimed, pleased that she was making some move towards finding herself a job. "What was it for?" "Well," she said, with a slight touch of embarrassment, "Marita took me to a modeling agency on Market Street." "A modeling agency?" I echoed. "Well you've got the face and the figure for it. How did you get on?" "It was pretty weird," replied Donna. "It all looked above-board at first. We went into these plush offices and there were some guys there to interview the candidates - young executive types, well-dressed, relaxed "But?" I asked, beginning to read something ominous between the lines. "Well, they asked me a few questions and then...um...they asked me to take my clothes off." "They what?" "What could I do? I thought maybe they wanted me for underwear commercials or something and I didn't want to come across like some hick from the sticks and so I..." "So you took your clothes off." "Yep." "And these guys had a great time gawking at you." "No. No, it wasn't like that. They just looked me over and said 'Yeah, that's fine' and that was that." "So what's the problem?" "Well, when I finally got out of the place Marita told me that she reckoned they weren't looking for models but...well...actresses." "You mean in porno movies, don't you?" "I guess so." "Right, that does it!" I shouted. "No more Marita! She's bad news Donna! Jesus! I thought that sort of thing only happened in L.A.!" After so many years of uncertainty, my life was finally beginning to take on some semblance of stability. Donna had turned out to be the perfect companion and our circle of friends seemed only to worry about who was going to organize the next barbecue and where it was
36
going to be held. As hectic as my job was, I had mastered it and had become such an efficient and speedy troubleshooter that at last I could afford to enjoy the scenery as I traveled around from job to job. Then, as the fall of 1984 was approaching, I began to notice a change in Donna's behaviour. Frequently withdrawn, she began to complain of sickness and loss of appetite. At first I thought the problem might be psychosomaticand that she was distressed by my spending so much time away from home but gradually another possibility occurred to me and it was not long before it occurred to Donna too. "Bill," she said, one day. "I think I might be pregnant." It was exactly what I had come to suspect but now that it had actually been put into words I didn't really know how to react to it. "Are you sure?" I asked. "No," she replied. "1'11 have to take a pregnancy test before I can say that but I've missed a period and I get sick to my stomach almost every morning and...well...I just feel pregnant." "Is it what you want?" I asked. "I think so," she said. "That depends a lot on you. How do you feel about it?" That was a good question. To be honest I didn't feel like passing around the cigars and rushing out to tell the neighbors but, on the other hand, it did seem to be a natural culmination of our life together. We had a stable happy relationship, good friends, a comfortable home in spite of the goings-on out back and a secure income. There'd never be a better time. "It's great!" I replied, putting my arms around her. And I truly believed it was. Then, early in September, just as both of us were adjusting to the possibility of parenthood, a letter arrived bearing a Michigan postmark. It was signed Jeims Deimen the lawyer with whom, almost four months before, I had lodged a patent application for my funny bottle. Knowing lawyers, he was undoubtedly about to stick me for a few dollars more and my suspicions seemed to be confirmed when I glanced at the first few lines of his letter: he wanted two hundred. But my patent had been accepted by Washington. Somewhere in the federal capital, in an obscure office, there was an equally obscure government official waiting for my money before sending me my patent certificate. This was supposed to be good news but why wasn't I excited? To tell the truth, I had long forgotten about my bottle. My copy of the patent application had been in my attache case; the attache case had
37
PRIVATE SCREENING
been in my rented truck; my rented truck had caught fire. I had even come to the conclusion that, most likely, the patent would not be allowed and that paying Mr Deimen his thousand dollars had been a waste of money. Now that, against all my expectations, I had the patent, I really didn't know what to do with it. To be more precise, I rather resented its intrusion. It brought to mind a past life that no longer had any relevancefor me and I knew, in some obscure way, that it represented a great and unwelcome responsibility. "So what exactly is this patent?" asked Donna. "Some sort of certificate like the ones you get for swimming?" "You tell me," I replied. "A full house of aces maybe. A crazy jackpot? I can't say I'm all that sure." Perhaps it was none of those. Perhaps it was more. What was certain was that I felt, however vaguely and confusedly, that this 'thing' would become a definite part of myself that I would have to live with it from then to the end of my days. From this time I retain a memory of subtle changes which disturbed my whole being. They were hardly perceptible at first: simple shifts in my interior reality, identical images not quite superimposed. This slow metamorphosis was characterized by long stretches of silence and moments of intense melancholy. I began to neglect those around me. I just didn't listen to them any more and I didn't seem to understand what they wanted. More and more I began to see the parallels between Donna's pregnancy and this new responsibility that had been thrust onto me. Wasn't I too carrying a being that I'd conceived accidentally? Weren't my first symptoms anxiety and nausea? My nights were full of weird dreams kaleidoscopic visions of tight bellies and swollen breasts. Then, one fevered morning, I awoke with my arms and legs spreadeagled on sheets soaked with sweat. I was short of breath and gasping hoarsely. I had cried out, but at what point and why? I didn't know yet but I did feel relieved of something, as if a painful abscess had suddenly burst. I'd given birth at last. The patent in its incubator, that expert hands were mothering, was the proof of it. Who was to say whether my child was a freak or a prodigy? For my part, I wanted it to become a star and I was prepared to make a lot of sacrifices to see it shine in the firmament.
38
I had been in fairly regular touch with Birgit over the preceding months: either she would call from Germany or I would call her. For all that had happened between us, it had still been a relief to know that her impulsive departure had not been the result of an interesting offer from the New York office of the genuine Louis Vuitton. A soon as I s heard about my patent, Birgit was one of the first people I phoned and she was quick to wish me luck. A few days after this received a letter with a German postmark. It was brief and to the point:
Dear Bill, I learned of the issue of your patent with a lot ofpleasure. very proud of you and I congratulate you for it. Recently life in Germany has become unbearable. homesick for the United States. I miss everything: American TV...even American food! that much longer. If you like, join I can't stay cut off you soon in California. Birgit
The immediate impact of this letter showed itself when my nightmares began to turn into pleasant dreams. My mind wandered to all the good times we'd had in Europe, Africa and America. I even remembered the dried-up toothpaste with something like affection. Donna's pregnancy had turned out to be a false-alarm. I should have been disappointed, but I wasn't: now I was even beginning to regard it with some sense of relief. I felt very guilty about my changing state of mind: Donna loved me very much and, for a long time, I had thought I loved her too. Now, however, I couldn't escape from the idea that she had merely been part of an elaborate illusion of domesticitythat I had constructed for myself and, more serious yet, that she had really been a substitute for Birgit. I had to face up to the fact that Donna would never become an inseparable part of my life in the way that Birgit had. Somehow I couldn't imagine her taking any interest in my professional career beyond the mundane question of how much money it would bring in. In the years to come, when our relationship had lost its fizz, would there be anything to for it? What was absolutely certain was that the collapsible bottle would occupy a major part of my future life and that whoever shared that life
39
PRIVATE SCREENING
with me would have to be prepared to shoulder some amount of responsibility too. In all honesty, I could not imagine Donna being able to do that. Birgit, on the other hand, would always wish to be involved: it was second-nature to her. When A.S.H.S. decided to buy the latest C.T. scanners, they chose manufactured by Siemens. As part of the deal, Siemens was to provide me with a six week training course in Islin, New Jersey. I had been on many similar training-courses in the past as I looked upon them as an investment for the future and a furthering of my career. This time, however, I felt that this period would provide me with a breathing-space and a chance to evaluate both my personal life and where I stood with that patent. For Donna, after six months away from home, my trip created the ideal opportunity to go see her parents in Michigan. Islin is a small town south of New York City whose major claim to fame quite probably its only claim is that it hosts the U.S. headquarters of Siemens and the Siemens training school. The nearby Ramada Inn was almost entirely occupied by its students and was to be my home for the duration of the course. The 3 was the latest German engineering marvel. In fact, while many of its components were made in Germany, the others came from just about every corner of the world. In the past, I had never attached much importance to the fact that this monstrous life-saving machine owed its ultimate existence to the contributions of a hundred or so different manufacturers. Now I began to pay more attention to the long lists of patent numbers and pat.pending inscriptions and realized for the first time that, although it was one of the largest electronic companies in the world, Siemens was obliged to rely on much smaller companies for its technology not because it was incapable of developing it itself but because it was forbidden to. With a hundred or more patented components in each machine, the lawyers must have had an incredibly complex and difficult job finding out exactly who owned what and what was to be paid for it. The cover of my own patent bore the following words: United States Patent grants to the person or persons having title to this patent the right to exclude others from making, using or selling the invention throughout the United States of the original grant, ica for the unexpired part of the 17-year subject to the payment of maintenance fees as provided by law.
40
As I became increasingly familiar with this formula, I began to see the absurdity that lay behind it: although the patent allowed me t o stop unauthorized people from manufacturing my invention, it did not necessarily allow me to manufacture it myself. This whole business was starting to look more complicated than my love life. The six-week separation finally became too long for Donna and she decided to come and spend a few days with me. We did a bit of sightseeing in New York City and rounded off our first evening by going to see the Broadway show The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas which proved to be considerably more entertaining than the nearest one in Vallejo. In spite of my mixed feelings and divided loyalties, I had missed Donna and was glad she had come. No sooner had we got back to the hotel than the telephone rang. "Hi, Bill. It's Birgit. I got your phone number from Tom. Could you come and pick me up from Kennedy airport tomorrow?" To say I was surprised would be putting it mildly. I had no alternative but to say yes but even as I said it I was wondering how I could arrange things with Donna. It always seemed that just when I was starting to see clearly, something like this would come along and cloud the issue all over again. I had dreamed about this day for so long but, of course, it had finally come at the worst possible time. I did my best to explain the situation to Donna who, predictably, failed to understand anything I said. She broke down and felt as if she'd been used and I had to admit that I couldn't really blame her. "Donna," I said. "I promise that tomorrow she'll be out and on her way. It's just that I haven't seen her for so long and I couldn't say no to her." "Okay, Bill," she replied. "I'll make myself scarce but she'd better be gone when I get back." I picked Birgit up at Kennedy in the afternoon and drove straight back to the hotel. As far as Birgit knew, there was nobody else in my life and she was not a little surprised when I checked her into a separate hotel room. I guess that not telling her about Donna was symptomatic of my indecision. Having dinner at the hotel restaurant that evening and watching Donna a few tables away eating in the company of another Siemens engineer, was an experience I am no hurry to repeat. I made all kinds of excuses not to bring Birgit back to my room not because I didn't want to but because I couldn't. I had only spent a
41
PRIVATE SCREENING
few hours with her and my decision had been made. I would not let her get away again. I had just fallen asleep when I heard a knock. "Who is it?" I called softly. "Only me." It was Birgit's voice. Before I had time to say anything further the door opened. A shaft of light from the corridor pierced the darkness of the room and cast a yellow glow on Donna's naked back.
42
4 . JIM
Okay. So now I was the father of an invention - the happy holder of a patent which had made me the proudest of men. But I knew even less about inventions and patents than I knew about conventional parenthood. I felt like someone had just thrust an old-fashioned diaper into my hands and said: "Congratulations, Bill. Now fold this." There was only one thing for it: I would have to devote the following weeks to my own education. This was a decision which led me to some of the biggest university libraries in California: San Francisco, Oakland, Sacramento, Berkeley. By the time I got around to Davis a very conservative town which hosts a nationally famous university my research was beginning to get a little bogged down. Fortunately I discovered that the library there had a special department entirely devoted to patents. I had finally hit pay-dirt. On microfilm I found the complete records of the Official Gazette a weekly bulletin put out by the U.S. Department of Commerce which lists thousands of inventions and which is regularly examined in minute detail by every industrialist eager to capitalize on the latest innovations. I discovered that.. essentially, the conditions necessary to obtain a patent are very simple and straightforward. Of course,the first priority is innovation: you have to be able to prove that nobody in the world has given birth to the same idea or presented the public with a prototype. Further to this, the invention must be able to impress the most cautious professional and you must be able to exploit it industrially as soon as possible. If your discovery does not respect these three imperatives, the child that you have brought into the world will be still-born. Now all of this is useful to know if you actually set out to invent something and capitalize on it in a cold-blooded way. For my part and for many others - the whole business was a mad gamble conducted in a dazed, semi-concussed state of mind.
43
PRIVATE SCREENING
The further I advanced in my research, the closer and more disturbing became the analogy between an invention and a child. As with a child, you will only keep your invention with you for seventeen or twenty years, depending on whether you raise it in the United States or in Europe. As with a child, the law obliges you to pay strict attention to its upbringing in order to ensure its healthy development. Part or all of this responsibility can be delegated to another party. Finally, however, if it is shown that you've failed in your duty - that you haven't been capable of exploiting your invention practically - your responsibilities will be taken over. A judge or a patent-office official will set up the licensing for you. Someone else will be appointed its guardian and will become its adoptive parent. After all, a patent is not granted so much to make money for the inventor as to stimulate innovation in the country and it must therefore be adequately exploited. The nation's stock of industrial assets would not be increased if the technology were suppressed. What if the owner of the patent refuses to grant a license on reasonable terms? When does an inventor become the abuser of the monopoly entrusted to him? Even the most cursory examination of patent law cannot fail to suggest that in the 'Land of Liberty' we are not as free to prosper as we imagine: our much-vaunted 'Yankee know-how' is subject to severe controls. So, whether I liked it or not, a lot of responsibility was being dumped on me. As things stood then, I had no experience that would allow me to guarantee a successful future for my offspring. I knew nothing about the plastics industry or the chemical industry and even less about the packaging industry. All I knew was that somewhere in the world there would be companies which might be interested in this collapsible container. Sure, my container was originally conceived for soda-pop but it would be even more appropriate for other applications. Thanks to its configuration and its particular properties, it could be easily stocked and transported and it was just as suitable for packaging foodstuffs as medicines. Ready or not, my child's civil status was officially registered on 8th January 1985. With whom was I going to share the responsibilityfor its education? From the day my patent was published in the Official Gazette, I was inundated with letters, with brochures, with an entire canon of literature emanating from people who claimed to be enthusiastic about my invention and have my best interests at heart. There were certainly
44
some sincere and honest people among them but there were also a good many bogus industrialists and some real crooks. Such people would ask for thirty, fifty or a hundred dollars and promise to send, by return of post, a mine of precious information which, they claimed, would be indispensable in exploiting my discovery. "For only three hundred dollars we can provide you with a list of a hundred companies that will have an immediate interest in your invention!" The list, of course, would be 'personalized' to the extent of being banged out on an old typewriter and would be compiled by thumbing through the Yellow Pages. The beauty of such an operation lies in the fact that there is absolutely no deception involved and no assurance of success. I might have been tempted if they'd offered a money-back guarantee. I even received a visit from a so-called 'marketing expert' who made me a curious and somewhat one-sided proposition. "It's dead-easy, Mr Touzani," he said. "You don't have to worry about a thing. Ill take care of everything for you - the manufacturing, the commercialization - and you get five percent royalties on all my profits. How does that grab you?" It was clear to me that the poor guy thought he was doing me a considerable favor and I didn't have the heart to disabuse him. As I accompanied him to the door, I took his arm and assured him that I was extremely grateful for his benevolent concern. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate this, Mr Klinger," I said. "You're very kind. Frankly, I'd have thought it was up to me to pay you five percent royalties to compensate you for the strain of safeguarding my interests." It was not long after my return to California that Tom began to notice a difference in me. At the age of thirty maybe my priorities were changing. Certainly the outgoing, sociable, athletic person of former days seemed to have vanished. Now I spent most of my time immersed in my own thoughts, looking very serious, with all my interests centered around my career and a voracious desire to learn all I could about patents, licensing and plastics. "Is this all you have to look forward to?" he would say. "You're getting to be a pretty dull guy, Bill." There was more to it than that: he had never forgiven me for breaking up with Donna. I had asked her to go back home rather abruptly and had not stopped feeling guilty about it since. While Birgit had
45
PRIVATE SCREENING
gone to Philadelphia to work as a secretary for a law--firm and had promised to sue me for every penny I had, Donna had left quietly for Ann Arbor, Michigan, where she got a job as a supermarket checker. Despite all the heartbreak, she still cared enough to stay in touch and she phoned me on several occasions. Tom intercepted some of these calls and he even offered her a round-trip ticket to come and visit. He tended to think of our relationship as a soap-opera and, once in a while, he felt duty-bound to tinker with the script: "She loves you, man!" he would exclaim, dramatically. "What the hell is wrong with you?" I didn't know what was wrong with me. Was it a crime that I now thought of Donna more as a sister than as a girlfriend? More worrying than any criticisms voiced by Tom, was the fact that this shift in priorities was beginning to affect my work. I found myself increasingly distracted by my new interests while people's lives depended on my keen attention. Even those six a.m. calls from John and Charley had ceased to be the nuisance they once were now they didn't wake me up because I was never asleep anyway. I found myself looking forward to my afternoon nap. Finally, I decided that the time had come to choose between my patent or my job. I started a new job which I felt would allow me the compromise I was after. I left A.S.H.S and started working for Picker International out of their San Francisco offices. Picker were one of the world's leaders in the manufacturing of medical diagnostics equipment and a subsidiary of a large British company. They planned to teach me their way of looking at human anatomy but I was considerably less enthusiastic about this than they were. I was only looking forward to more regular hours, hopefully making new friends and, most importantly, having more free time. When I chose to work for a manufacturer - accepting a lower salary and starting from the bottom up - I was naturally fully aware of the extended schooling and the on-the-job training period which the company provided. The technology employed by Picker was not radically different from that of my previous employers which meant that, in my case, the period of retraining was pretty much redundant. However, it did have one major advantage the flexibility of time and movement would now allow me to market my invention more conveniently. The Picker school was in Ohio Cleveland, of all places. Although it wouldn't have been my first choice of location, it did have the advantage that Ann Arbor and Donna were roughly an hour's drive
46
away: it would be nice to get together for dinner once in a while. In this I was reckoning without Donna, of course. She had slightly different ideas and decided to move in with me at the Best Western Hotel where she could enjoy breakfast as well. The Best Western, situated close by the company school, was used almost exclusively by Picker employees as a second home. Sometimes they even brought their entire families t o stay with them. Donna loved the place and could easily have spent all day chatting with the other girlfriends and wives. She appeared to find the lifeguard's line of conversation particularly stimulating. Although I had a few reservations about Donna's coming to stay with me, at the end of the two or three week courses it was always difficult for both of us to say goodbye again. Promising to rendezvous during the next training period was our only consolation. During one of my forays into the library at the University of Davis, in the spring of '85, I decided, on an impulse, to visit the swimmingpool. It was refreshing t o watch the men and women's swim-team practice and the place itself had a unique atmosphere: an Olympicsized, outdoor pool, it was almost hidden beneath a swirling cloud of steam. Located not far from the Sierra foothills, Davis could get pretty chilly even on a spring day. Watching the team practice revived pleasant memories of my own swimming career. Ten years before, I had been one of the world's best and had gone to La Salle college in Philadelphia courtesy of a swimming scholarship. As my visits to the swimming-pool became more frequent, I became increasingly close to Jerry, the men's swim-coach. Jerry had coached football twenty-five years earlier, up to the time when the university built its swimming-pool. He then asked to become the swim-coach even though he had never spent a day of his life as a competitive swimmer and had never coached swimmers before. When he became aware of my past swimming experience he asked me to be his assistant. "Bill," he said, "I'd like you to give a one hour classroom session a week on the theory of swimming techniques." "Right," I replied. "Any particular aim in mind?" "The next Olympics. Gold medals." "Right." I was very flattered - I had never dreamed of being a university instructor. Of course, it had occasionally been a fantasy but I had never imagined that one day it might also become a reality. I must have real-
47
PRIVATE SCREENING
ly impressed him with my knowledge of swimming but what had the most impact on him was undoubtedly what he came to call 'The Touzani Technique'. Many of Jerry's swimmers had uneven strokes -mostly as a result of lack of coordination. Instead of breaking down their action to show the faults, I would simply short-circuit the whole matter by asking them to take their breaths on the opposite side for a few laps. When I asked them to swim normally, they found it such a relief that they didn't notice they were now swimming in a more streamlined position, their arms and legs perfectly synchronized with their breathing. "Well, I've never seen anything like that," said Jerry. "If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes I wouldn't have believed it possible." "It comes with being an inventor, I guess," I replied. "Something always makes the obvious approach less attractive." It was enjoyable work, I found it quite easy and at least I didn't have to worry about my beeper going off in the middle of practice. As I was spending increasing amounts of time in Davis, I decided it was only logical to move there. My flat-mate didn't mind: Tom and Marita had by now gone a long way beyond dating and were currently seeking refuge from Ninja somewhere to the south of San Francisco. My new, one-bedroom apartment was directly across from the swimming pool in a noisy, all-student complex. I liked it there. I was now able to catch up on the latest rock music whether I actually wanted to or not and it was possible for me to give private lessons to my swimmers and accompany them on their weekend inter-collegiate swim-meets inside and outside the state. It was as I was packing for my next trip to Cleveland that I received a phone call. It was Donna. "Sorry, I can't join you this time, Bill" she said, with a slight trace of nervousness in her voice. "1 just got married. To the lifeguard." Clearly their conversation had been stimulating indeed. "You must be kidding!" I shouted. "The lifeguard? Ill drown the bastard!" 1 wasn't really angry. In fact 1 was very happy for her and happy for myself too. At least this would permanently close that chapter of my life. Illlook forward to seeing your bottle in the supermarket," she said. "I can even offer you some free market research."
48
Since I had filed my U.S. patent a year before, I had sent copies of it, along with hundreds of letters, to any companies that could have been interested, only to receive a handful of encouraging responses. Now I began to follow through with those responses and arranged for personal meetings. Shasta, a major national soft-drinks company, was located on the Oakland side of the San Francisco Bay close to the entrance to the San Mateo Bridge. It was directly on my route to Picker's offices. The office Shasta's director of new products, was in the company's of Peter legal building. I was impressed: Shasta seemed to be equipped to deal in-house with any legal matters, from product liability to patent infringements. My discussions with Peter were frank and friendly. Disarmingly lost no time in going to a closet and frank and friendly. In pulling out a funny-looking but disturbingly familiar container. "We just received this sample cup from a company in the Far East." he said, "It's extendible and this fruit concentrate pouch here can be diluted inside to provide you with a single served drink. To be honest, I'm surprised that you've just been issued a patent when this retail product is already available." This all came as quite a shock. As I was crossing the bridge to my next meeting in Mountain View, I was sweating at the thought that my patent might not be valid. I was convinced that Shasta's lawyers would never allow a royalty to be paid if there were serious doubts about its validity. Worse than that, how could I continue to regard myself as the proud inventor of an already existing product? Mountain View Investments was located directly above the Bank of America. "Mr Investments", while fiddling with Peter's extendible cup, was quick to disclose his bisexuality and offered to join me in the pool some day. It was obvious to me that his idea of extendible was different to mine.
,
The existence of another container employing my technology threw me into a state of panic. Plunging back into my readings on patent law, I discovered, to my surprise, that, as sophisticated and computerized as they were, the U.S. Patent Office would not guarantee any patent. Any person could request a re-examination by simply paying a fee and providing new information. To make matters worse, I received a package from Birgit ten little bottles labelled 'Flexiflask; expands ten ounces to twenty-two ounces; made in Japan; patent pending'. Since only an original inventor can be awarded a patent, was it possible that
49
PRIVATE SCREENING
the U.S. Patent Office, in their rush to examine and allow mine after only four months, could have neglected to bother with Japan during their global search? Japan was undoubtedly the most technologically advanced nation in the world! I guessed time would tell. Either that or a law-suit. It seemed the only way I could resolve the issue would be send some of the containers to Jeims Deimen and discuss the matter with him. "Look, Jeims," I said. "These containers have gone through R & D, production and marketing. Some of them are even filled with a juice and ready for use. Meanwhile, I'm just flashing my patents at companies and trying to convince them to do precisely the same thing. My patent is only a few weeks old. How do I know if it's good or not?" Jeims didn't seem in the least perturbed. "If there is any commercial value to your patent, those companies will certainly squeeze it out. As only a single application is needed for most of the continent, your other alternative is to file the same patent in Europe and see if the European office discovers any earlier patents that have been missed by the U.S. office. At least you'll find out one way or the other and that could save you a lot of time and money. You have only a few days left to do that and I must have your decision quickly." I gave it to him quicker than he expected. "Fine, Jim. Let's go for it." Jane, Jerry's wife cooked the most delicious pot-roast I had ever tasted and only that was capable of making me forget all my worries. Jerry, however, thought I ought to be less concerned about the roast beef and more concerned about meeting his old college room-mate, Bill Hoskins, who was director of R &D for McKesson, one of America's most prestigious corporations. His department conducted qualitative and quantitative studies on new products before they became our favorite brand-names. "They have their own lawyers down there," said Jerry. "They'll tell you if your patent is good or not. They might even offer to buy it from you. It tookJerry and I one hour to drive to Berlin, California. As a favor to his old friend, and as the gentleman that he was, and hopefully because he saw a business opportunity for himself, Bill Hoskins accepted to research the container's feasibility. We then left him with some of the imported bottles and a copy of my patent.
50
I couldn't help thinking how great it would be to have him as a partner in this project. A man with his expertise, his contacts and the insight that he had into the industry at large could be a big asset and my first-class ticket to success. I shared those same thoughts with Dr Schwemley as Lloyd and I were fixing one of his X-ray machines. As senior partner at Stockton Radiology, a private institution that employed half a dozen radiologists, Dr Schwemley also carried a considerabledeal of clout in this fastgrowing Californian town. The only absurdity lay in the fact that I couldn't look at him without thinking of Rodney Dangerfield. Stockton Radiology's major competition came fromStockton Diagnostics, owned by Dr Khory and only a block away. Dr Schwemley and Dr Khory claimed to have only heard of each other, and this was either from Picker's engineers or their salespeople. Who they talked to and why depended entirely on whether they preferred to hear about their competition expanding or their competitor's equipment breaking down. During working hours, these doctors wanted to know everything about you: where you came from, how you liked it now that you were here and if you had to be here tomorrow. It was the kind of relationship in which the less they saw of you the more they liked you. Having already checked my birth-certificate, my divorce papers and my college diplomas, it was no wonder that many of them ended up with a copy of my patent. In their profession they certainly ran into many patented products. A patent number on a product is either a sign of pride or a warning not to infringe, depending on who wants to know. The doctors probably couldn't care less but the concept of my bottles seemed to intrigue them. The idea of collapsing a bottle to keep air-sensitive solutions fresher or of expanding a bottle to dilute some concentrated formula was appealing to them. This was also the view of Pepsi-Cola, Dupont and Kodak - they wrote and told me so. But how about those bastard bottles from the Far East? How about the collapsible enema-bottle produced in Denver? It was a new product but it could already be purchased from the neighborhood drugstore. I'd even watched the doctors using it. To see these bottles already in production certainly confirmed the practicality of my invention but it also cast serious doubts on its originality. Was their existence a blessing or a curse? "Listen, Bill," said Dr Schwemley. "Why don't we just start a company? Illconvince my associates to pitch in and you convince Bill
51
PRIVATE SCREENING
Hoskins to join us. If the patent proves to be no good we'll just cut our losses and declare them as tax-deductions." It was disquieting to think of my patent as a tax-shelter and the I.R.S. as a partner and equally disquieting to think that I was starting a company just because I owned three sheets of paper. These three sheets, however, held legal monopoly on a technology which could only be acquired through me. But did I really need to have my own company for this, or did I even have to dedicate myself to it full-time? After all, I could easily advertise my patent in quarter-page, black and white ads in packaging trade magazines. Any forthcoming inquiries demanding samples could then be referred to the nearest gift-shop or, in the case of the enema, drugstore depending on where, exactly, the customer wanted to put the container. This at least might give him some incentive to think up a whole range of applications in between. It was during this period that I spent some time at the California State Penitentiary in Vacaville. The Vacaville maximum security prison was host to some of the most vicious criminals in the country and the idea of playing tourist in their backyard did give me the creeps. Its location on the outskirts of the city, surrounded by woods and its majestic gates and stone towers combined to give it an almost medieval look. I wouldn't have been greatly shocked to have seen King Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding out of it. The large crowds of families with children milling around outside the gates made Vacaville look more like Disneyland than a penal institution. However, once the armed guards had escorted Lloyd and me through the gates, there was certainly no Mickey Mouse to greet us and we were clearly not entering a fairy-tale castle. As we carried our heavy toolbagsthe hundred or so yards between the main gate and the infirmary building we could see that we were a long way from Disneyland it was more like entering one of Yul Brynners Westworld science-fiction movies. Our guards did not smile and made no attempt at conversation. They were as emotionless as robots. While we took the elevator to the third floor they stared at me constantly. We were led down a hallway past a succession of anonymous steel doors. I couldn't resist taking a peek through some of those tiny, eyelevel windows. I saw a dozen patient-inmates crowded into each room, some standing, some lying in bed, all staring back at me. They knew who we were high-voltage technicians. They'd seen us come and go for years.
52
"Don't look inside," said Lloyd. "You never know when one of them dudes might jump up from the X-ray table and grab you by the throat." "Why?" I asked. "'Cause he thinks the X-rays are stealing his soul, dummy," he laughed. Judging by the blank, expressionless faces staring back at me, the souls of these men had deserted them a long time ago. Perhaps they were wandering about outside the walls, enjoying a freedom denied to their owners. Yes, freedom. It was a place like Vacaville that made you value it the most. Freedom was a pretty relative term in any case. Who could honestly claim to be free when their every action was ultimately determined by the devices and desires of other people? Was having your own company the ultimate freedom? If so, freedom for what and for whom? Was having your own company the same as having your own business? I'd had my own business once before in Ann Arbor and I'd got badly burned. I was still carrying the scars, but I knew that, in the end, in spite of what I'd been through, my sense of adventure would take over anyway. Did it really matter what I thought? Saint Joseph's hospital in Stockton was huge by anybody's standards. I was already very familiar with it, having spent lots of time performing maintenance there over the preceding months. It was located directly across the street from Stockton Radiology, which made it very convenient for Dr Schwemley. Convenient in more ways than one: when he proposed meeting there, in conference room A, I was pretty sure he wanted to be on neutral ground with his business rival Dr Khory. By 6 p.m. everybody was there; Dr Khory and his partner Dr Barkett, Dr Schwemley, Dr Thomas and three of their other associates. Associates? I'd been running into them all this time in the hospital grounds without ever suspecting that they were Dr Schwemley's business partners. The fact that the partners were medical doctors was some consolation - after all, you would naturally expect them to have high ethical standards. What bothered me the most was that five out of the seven were Middle Easterners. This kind of majority would almost certainly guarantee that they would stick together in general and vote together in particular. It was something that Lloyd had warned me about on a number of occasions.
53
PRIVATE SCREENING
"Bill," he would say. "The Valley has a large Lebanese population. They have a reputation as pretty shrewd business-people. Watch out for yourself." I guessed I was going to have to stop thinking of these people as dedicated professionals and start regarding them more as businessmen - Lebanese or not. In fact, with so many of those present already known to each other, the meeting had the air of a family reunion. I wouldn't have been greatly surprised if Birgit had waltzed through the door with her lawyer in tow and said: "Whatever Bill is left with at the end of this meeting, I want cut in half." I hoped that when that happened I still had my pants on. The radiologists introduced me to their lawyer, Steve Crabtree. I introduced them to Bill Hoskins. When everyone had been well and truly introduced, it was time for the family quiz-show to begin. Steve Crabtree kicked off the meeting by declaring that he was not present to defend the interests of the radiologists but to advise all of us on the creation of a new company. I had already assumed that, having reviewed my U.S. patent, he must have realized that it represented some considerable equity otherwise we wouldn't have been sitting there at all. He lost no time in getting directly to the point. "Is Mr Touzani licensing his European or his U.S. patent?" Everybody agreed that the company about to be formed was to deal in collapsible bottles exclusively for the American market and therefore only the U.S. patent was of interest to them. "We could even call the company Collapsible Bottle of America," I suggested. "Very imaginative, Mr Touzani," replied Crabtree, without noticeable sarcasm. "Now, since it's only the U.S. patent that interests us, for the sake of the agreement, we ought to give it a dollar value. I propose a quarter of a million dollars. I flew out of my chair in protest. "No way!" I said. Its worth at least five million." The radiologists stared at each other. They certainly wanted to believe me. "Okay,"Crabtree conceded. "How about one million seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars?" It was quite a jump from his first estimate. "Sold!" I shouted. Suddenly,I was a millionaire at the age of thirty. Incredible.
54
In my naive way, I was beginning to enjoy this. It was like an auction. I almost wished I'd brought my mother's antique silverware. "Next," continued Crabtree, "we'd better think about what sort of company you want to form. I recommend a closed corporation under 'Chapter S so that you can avoid double taxation. With all of you as directors." "Closed corporation? Chapter S? What the hell is he talking about?" I thought. "What I need right now is a book on California Corporate Law. I've seen them in the bookstores - they're next to the books on California Divorce Law." I was doing my best to keep a straight face but it was proving very difficult. "My lawyer has advised me against a corporation," declared Dr Khory, who managed to sound like one of his patients who had been warned off alcohol. "Mr Touzani has no experience in this business and I don't want to incur any kind of liability whatsoever." I wasn't quite sure whether what he'd said was an insult or a compliment but one thing was certain: the sound of 'Touzani Inc.' didn't appeal to me at all. "Mr Touzani has a patent to license," observed Dr Barkett. "He's not going to manufacture, transport or distribute these bottles. I believe a corporation is unnecessary." "As everybody seems to agree on that," said Crabtree, "the other alternative is a limited partnership. Bill can be the general partner with full control and power and the rest of you, as limited partners, would be silent." "That'll make a change," I thought. He continued into the early hours of the morning. The final outcome was that the doctors agreed to purchase fourteen percent of what was to become CBA Collapsible Bottle of America - at fifteen thousand dollars a share. For a nominal sum, Bill Hoskins was given two percent to compensate him for his consulting services to the business. We then agreed to meet in the near future, at the same time and in the same place, having allowed Steve Crabtree to type his first draft of the agreement and having given me time to read up on California Limited Partnership Law. In spite of what he had said to the contrary, it had becoming increasingly obvious during the meeting that Steve Crabtree had been there to protect the doctors from me rather than to look out for our common interests. After all, there was nothing to be gained by trying
55
PRIVATE SCREENING
to impress me: I was a nobody some guy who had walked in off the street with a patent in one pocket and a lot of high hopes in the other. Our subsequent meetings in July and August of 1985 only confirmed my appraisal: every one of them turned into a wrestling match, a battle of wills between him and me. It became so all-absorbing that my birthday came and went without my even realizing it. Steve Crabtree's contracts were so grossly one-sided that, by the end of our negotiations, I'd rejected five of them. Most of my efforts were devoted to making sure that my business associates could never remove me as general partner short of dissolving the company. For his part, Mr Hoskins requested that his consulting services be omitted from the contract as this would conflict with his role as a limited partner. Finally, the doctors, after several weeks of agonizing and having decided that maybe this patent of mine was going to be worth more than they had thought, secured the right to purchase six optional shares within a fourteen month time limit. At last everybody seemed to be happy and the CBA limited partnership was concluded. "I hope you realize, gentlemen," I said, at our final meeting, "that my full-time duties with the partnership are limited to sub-licensing my U.S. patent to others. We will not be conducting the business ourselves because I, as general partner, risk losing everything should there be a liability-suit. I believe we are all in agreement that this business is to be restricted to the U.S. and its territories only. I still have European patents that I also have to license." "We understand all of that, Bill," said Dr Schwemley. "We don't expect you to throw your European patents in the trash can. Of course you have to look for takers but we are certainly not interested ourselves. Now can we get down to business and sign those damned agreements. I'm exhausted." And thus we signed a licensing agreement giving CBA exclusive rights to exploit my U.S. patent. I still had mixed feelings, however. I had spent months dreaming about how I would license both my European and U.S. patents to a single multinational corporation, relieving me of all responsibilities and also earning millions in royalties. Instead I found myself giving exclusive rights for the use of my U.S. patent to a company that nobody had ever heard of, in return for the doubtful privilege of being enthroned as general partner. I guessed Europe would have to wait a little bit longer.
56
Towards the early hours of the morning we crawled out of the hospital conference room looking dead-beat. As we were walking down the hall, Dr Schwemley patted me on the shoulder in a fatherly way "You're a tough negotiator, Bill," he said. "I know you'll do well." "Believe me, Dr Schwemley," I replied. "I trust you completely. It's the other people I'm not so sure about. I have to be careful. If it had just been the two of us, I'd have done the whole thing o n a handshake." "You're right," he agreed. "It's better to be safe than sued. When I embarked on this business, I admit I looked on it very much as a hobby. Helping people has been a way of life for me and I wanted to give you a helping hand. And to thank me you just dragged me through the mud for two months. I think I need a physical." If he thought he'd got more than he bargained for he should have talked to my boss at Picker. He was really going to love all this. After all, he'd just invested several months and thousands of dollars in preparing me for the day when I would be productive and independent and now I had to tell him how really independent I'd become. Maybe he'd sue the doctors for conflict of interest. Or maybe he'd sue the hospital for allowing their premises to be used for non-hospital business. On the other hand, with myself and the doctors having suddenly become so close, it might just be possible for him to make them feel guilty about what they'd done. In that case, they wouldn't fail to choose Picker when the time came to purchase new machines. Hell, I'd even forfeit my commission.
57
5 . LISA
I resigned from Picker with some reluctance: I was giving up a secure job in favorof an unpredictable and uncertain future. It was true that the doctors were giving me two hundred thousand dollars but I knew even then that it was a drop in the ocean compared with what I would eventually need. If my sole objective had been only to produce prototypes the money would soon have been taken up with production costs and expenses incurred by travel and trade shows. Fortunately, I still had a little breathing space; the Memorial Hospital of Sacramento was adding five new X-ray wings and my help was desperately needed there. I agreed to stay on for a few more weeks. It would take about that long for the doctors to send in their checks anyway. Once in a while I would sneak out in the lunch-hour to see if my mailbox contained another of those thirty thousand dollar payments. It was during this time in Sacramento that fate directed me to the nearest car wash. In fact fate had rather less to do with it than the general state of my Chevy which was starting to look like something between a market-garden and the city dump. The blonde in line behind me seemed to agree with this description. She watched me with obvious amusement as I went to and fro between the car and the trashcan in my efforts to dispose of a considerable mountain of junk and decaying organic matter. Having restored my car to a state of relative respectability, I moved it further up the line. The girl took my place and, with a mischievous smile, began to empty the trash out of her car too. In her case it took only one trip and I got the impression that she was far more interested in showing off her tight jeans than in sprucing up the inside of her automobile. The attendant asked me to wait in the front office while he drove the car through the wash. A few minutes later the girl joined me there, with that same mischievous smile still haunting her face. "You a doctor?" she asked, noticing my pager.
58
"No," I replied. "I'm an X-ray technician. But we d o house-calls too." We spent several minutes talking. Her name was Lisa and she was a nurse in the pediatrics department. "Just follow the yellow line o n the ground," she said. "It'll take you straight there." "Sounds like The Wizard of Oz," I replied. "I think I'm getting a bit old for that now. Maybe you'd settle for having lunch with me tomorrow?" "I won't be here tomorrow) I'm not working," she answered. "Oh, what the hell! Look, you know the Good Earth Restaurant? Right, Ill meet you there."
I almost didn't recognize her. She'd looked pretty good the day before in a t-shirt and jeans but in a dress she was breathtaking. We talked about the weather and the hospital and the sort of mundane subjects that most people discuss when they're getting t o know each other. Finally she let slip that her surname was Triplett. "Lisa Triplett," I said. "I had me a Triplett once before; it was the first volt-meter I ever bought." "That's a new line," she said, with mock seriousness. "I don't think I've ever been compared with a volt-meter before." "Well, there's a first time for everything," I replied. "It just struck me as odd, that's all. It's not a very common name." "I suppose not," she said. "Okay, I surrender: you hit the nail right o n the head. My grandfather founded Triplett Instruments. My father ran it until he retired a few years back." "You mean all that measuring equipment I saw in the university labs was your father's creation?" At this point I realized that if I was going to impress Lisa, it certainly wouldn't be with my single invention. "My father donates a lot of equipment to schools," she said. "All made in Bluffton, Ohio." "Ah! Bluffton! I always loved Bluffton," I lied. "It's got to be my favorite city after San Francisco. I've seen better airports though." "I'm sure you have, Bill!" she laughed. "Bluffton doesn't even have a McDonald's, let alone an airport." Our lunch was taking much too long. In fact, having already tendered my resignation, I was glad that I could n o longer be fired. Lisa offered t o go t o my apartment and see if any of the seven checks I was
59
PRIVATE SCREENING
still expecting had arrived. I hoped she wouldn't notice my dirty socks in the sink but she seemed so understanding that I didn't think she'd mind anything. In fact if she'd already accepted my dirty car, I was sure she wouldn't turn up her nose at my socks. Talking to Lisa was almost like talking to my sister or even my grandmother. She was softly spoken and so considerate and polite that it came as no surprise to learn that children loved her and it was certainly no coincidence that she worked in pediatrics. Before we separated for the day, we agreed to spend the following Saturday in San Francisco. We went shopping. With a lot of girls, this might have been a decidedly dangerous occupation but Lisa was far more interested in bookstores than in fashionable boutiques. While I browsed through the technical section, she could always be found looking at children's books, travel books and books about her Christian faith. Lisa took her religion pretty seriously. I knew by then that I couldn't see her on Tuesday nights because she had her Bible study class then and although we had been holding hands off and on all day I was beginning to wonder if I was only going to get my first kiss after we got married. We decided to conclude our day with a candle-light dinner on Fisherman's Wharf. Once in the restaurant, I couldn't help noticing the maitre ds accent and while he was escorting us to our table I spoke to him in French. He seemed pleasantly surprised at this and, since business was slack that evening, he kept coming back to our table and speaking to me. It wasn't all that long before I began to find his constant attention intrusive and I started to wish I hadn't shown off. Lisa, however, was fascinated. She was absolutely amazed that I could speak French so fluently - not so very surprising when you considered that I spoke it almost exclusively in the early years of my life . and I guess that's why she reached for my hand and pulled me towards her. to see if I could kiss with the same accent. I was starting to like the maitre d after all and my misgivings about Lisa's religious devotion took a severe knock. Jerry and his wife thought my new relationship was a definite turn for the better. They found Lisa a pleasant change from the college brats that been hanging around my place. On the other hand, they were sad to see me move fifty miles away to Stockton and Jerry was sure to lose his assistant. On the plus side, there was no way that Lisa could visit me and return home on the same day; she would have to stay the night.
60
For seven hundred dollars a month I rented a brand new, twostorey lakeside house. It would have been a dream-home for any couple and Lisa loved it. Together we bought furniture that could be easily converted from a home-look to an office-look depending on who was coming to dinner. I discovered a taste for leather couches and oak furniture. Once the telephone and telex lines were installed and I'd purchased an almost-new car, I was ready to start business. First, I visited several of the bottle manufacturers in Northern California, only to be politely pushed out of the office. "Mr. Touzani," said the representative of one such company. "We're into high-volume production here. We cannot allocate any machines for research and development. Why don't you try Los Angeles? They have many smaller facilities that might be more flexible. Mom 'n' Pop shops you know the sort of thing." "Well thank you very much," I replied, not really wanting to thank him at all. "But what do you think about my patented bottle. Do you think its workable?" "Well, if it is, you'll be the next Donald Trump." "In that case do you think your company would be willing to go out of its way and take a risk?" I asked. "Maybe I can issue exclusive contracts, if you help me now." "I wish I could, Mr Touzani," said the representative, smiling sympathetically, "but I'm afraid decisions of that sort are made at the company headquarters in Atlanta." It took me five hours to drive to Los Angelesand another two hours to get out of it on the southern side. The factory I was looking for was located right off Bandini Boulevard and went under the evocative name of Los Angeles PVC. It was owned by a slim, forty-five year old gentleman by the name of Al van denBerghe. With his slightly Mexican appearance and apologetic demeanor, he looked more like he should have been called Raoul Gonzales and worn a sombrero. To tell the truth I didn't particularly trust him. In retrospect, it was very unfair of me but I don't think I really trusted anyone in the business at that point. He seemed to confirm my suspicions when he began to elaborate on how they worked. "If you want to construct a prototype with the same plastic used in soft drink bottles, forget it," he said. "You would need to use a special process called stretch blow-molding." "Is that the two-step process which starts off with a test-tube shape?" I asked.
61
PRIVATE SCREENING
"Yes, it is," he replied, clearly impressed with such words from a layman. "The shape's called a preform. But for that you should be talking to Owens Illinois or Continental Can." "I already did. They said they weren't interested." "In that case if you want to do R & D yourself, at your own expense, you can probably lease the machines for around fifty thousand dollars a day." "Great," I said. "That's only a million and a half dollars a month. No, I'm afraid that's a bit out of my league it'll absorb all my money in less than four days." "Then what I would suggest," continued Al, "is you test your concepts on a simpler form of manufacturing called extrusion blow-molding. Why don't you follow me and Ill explain it to you?" Al took me on a guided tour of his factory. For a small plant, it was certainly impressive. We wound our way between dozens of machines, some of which were twenty feet high. The noise was indescribable. "The bottles are produced from a tube of hot plastic called a parison," Al yelled."Once it's extruded, a mold grabs it so that it's sandwiched in the middle like a hot-dog in a bun. Then air is forced into it through a needle, blasting the plastic against the cold walls of the mold. The plastic sets hard and you have your bottle." I could see and hear hundreds of them dropping all around me as the molds opened at the completion of their cycle. It was a fascinating experience. I had never seen an extrusion blow-molding plant in operation before but, thanks to my technical background, it was not too difficult to figure out. Finally, we went back to the office. "So what do you suggest, Al?" "Well, you can order your molds through me at five thousand dollars a mold," he said, fixing the Japanese bottle in my hand with a distracted stare. "We can mount them in the machine at a set-up charge of five hundred dollars and we can then rent you the machine at three hundred dollars an hour plus the cost of the plastic. I should add that the machine must be reserved three weeks in advance." I already knew enough about the business to realize that these costs, though high, were still below average. "It's a deal," I said. "But on one condition. I'd like to order four molds of different shapes and I'd like the testing to be completed before the start of the beverage show in Anaheim six weeks from now." I wrote him a check for ten thousand dollars and left for the long ride back. As I took my leave, I couldn't help thinking that at ten thou-
62
sand dollars per day for testing four molds, the bottles had better start dancing after one lesson. It had taken me a very long time to drive to L.A. and it seemed like I had been there for only five minutes before I had t o start back again. My journey took me across flat, featureless desert.country where the nearest gas.station was one hour in either direction and where truckers a n d t h e occasional Mexican farmer were my only companions. It pained me to think that I might have t o travel this route once or twice a week in the future. Unfortunately, this was to prove to be the case. At any rate, I could always console myself with the thought that it was better than struggling through the congested freeways of Los Angeles and perhaps even encountering the odd sniper for my trouble. Now I had four weeks t o wait before my molds were finished and I could set eyes on my first baby bottle. I decided to kill time by trying t o put a stop t o some of those infringements; a piece of cake, of course all I had to do was wave my patent at them and they'd yell for mercy, wouldn't they? Yes, it was time to teach those bastard bottles a lesson. The enema-bottle manufacturer in Colorado was very happy t o refer me t o his patent attorney who was equally happy t o send me a copy of their patent which I was slightly less happy t o receive. The patent in question was entitled Collapsible Douche. As soon as I got it, I called back immediately. "Sir," I said. "This is a collapsible women's douche and, what's more, it has t o be equipped with a syringe." "With all due respect, Mr Touzani," h e replied. "Syringe or n o syringe, you can squish this thing from the front or the back. What difference does it make?" "The difference, my good man, is that if you can squish this thing from the back, my business is in an awful, icky mess." "Well," he said. "If your bottle can do the same as our bottle, I can assure you that our bottle did it first. Just ask my secretary." Somehow I couldn't see myself arguing this case in front of a judge. The next item o n my agenda was locating an advertising agency both to advise me and to prepare a customer package. Knowing of n o better way of going about it, I decided to let my fingers d o the walking. The agency I found in the Yellow Pages, located in the IBM building in Stockton, was not only easy t o find, they were also more than happy to see me. Their offices were new and ultra-modern with purple furniture
63
PRIVATE SCREENING
and green staff. Being new in business themselves, they claimed to know my exact requirements. "The first thing you need is a logo." The advertising exec was a smartly-dressed woman in her thirties who was certainly not lost for words. Her name was Carol. "You mean like CBA in a circle or something like that?" "That's the sort of thing, yeah. What do you say we have our artist work something out for you?" "Sure." Their artist came in, was given his brief, and went out again. "You're based here in Stockton, right? Did you know that California Cooler are also based here?" "No, I didn't." "This would be a great bottle for wine .coolers, you know. Did you know that the two guys who started California Cooler began just like you? They were just two regular guys at the beach who stuck some wine in their fruit juice to see what it would taste like. A few years later their business sold for over a hundred million dollars. Your bottle might just be one more reason to hate California." "What did you say?" "It's one of their pitches. You'll need some sort of slogan too. Something like 'The Smart Bottle'?" "Great! Ill buy that." At that point Carol stood up and asked me to follow her. She led me out of the conference room and down the hall to a small kitchen where she immediately pointed to the microwave oven. "See this gizmo here?" she said. "It's a microwave," I replied, accurately. "Right. But you wouldn't believe how many people still don't know what it is. I bet you even more don't know how to use it." "You're right," I replied. "I have a microwave oven at home and I've never used it except maybe to boil some water. To tell you the truth, I just wouldn't know where to begin. Frankly, it scares me." "That's exactly why I brought you here," said Carol, with a smile of satisfaction."The guys that make these things have had a real problem. You can't just stick a microwave in front of someone and say 'Here it is. Now go away and use it' you have to educate them as well. Even a master chef will still have to learn microwave cooking from scratch. It's the same with your bottle." "It is?" I said.
64
"Sure it is! You'll have t o teach people that you can lock down the bellows to bring mayonnaise up to the surface, that wines won't go flat or simply that you can pack it neatly in a corner, people aren't used to thinking in those terms. It's like teaching them to walk all over again. Sooner or later you're going to have to face the fact that it'll take millions of dollars, and years, to teach them about the advantages." I hope you're wrong," I said, "because I can't afford either." "That's why your marketing philosophy is the correct one; t o construct prototypes to convey the idea effectively and let other corporations deal with it. If their marketing executives think it looks good and will have consumer appeal, they'll take care of the rest." "So are you asking me to write a cookbook?" "Well, that would be a start." We set off back to the conference room. "I suppose whoever invented the microwave must be sitting pretty now," I observed. "Probably," she laughed. "Actually, just like your own invention, it was discovered accidentally. Some engineer was experimenting with a magnetron tube and found that his egg had been cooked or, so the story goes. That's how they realized that it could have consumer benefits." "Interesting," I said. "But I still don't think Ill use mine." The artist rejoined us. "How's that?" He showed me a simple C.B.A. with a bellowed bottle inside the letter A. I liked it. I filled Carol in on the background of the invention and the inventor and gave her some sketches. She asked me t o come back a few days later to approve the work. The sales package was to include a n introduction sheet, a response card a n d a business card and clearly that would have t o suffice since, with the molds still under construction, I had n o color pictures available. As soon as I arrived home, I went directly to the kitchen, grabbed an egg and stuck it in the microwave. "Let's see now," I murmured. "What's the best setting? High, I guess." "Just what are you doing, Bill?" asked Lisa, open-mouthed. "A magic trick, Lisa. Just wait and see." I hit the start switch. It was magic all right. Within a few seconds there was a loud 'Thump!' from the microwave. Lisa and I jumped backwards. The win-
65
PRIVATE SCREENING
dow of the oven was obscured by white and yellow spatters and bore a passing resemblance to a painting byJackson Pollock. "That's very good, Bill," said Lisa. Its not supposed to do that," I mumbled. "I dare say not," said Lisa. Little did I know that a few months later my bottle would cause severe injury to a housewife. She put it in a microwave. It was as I was preparing to go down to Los Angeles again that I received the bill from the advertising agency. Lisa opened it and didn't immediately recognize what it was: to her it looked more like an advertising scam from the Reader's Digest. "Bill! You just won five thousand dollars!" But this was no cruise for two to a value of five thousand dollars, it was a bill for five thousand dollars. Fifteen hundred dollars for the logo? That was about twelve bucks a second! One thousand for 'The Smart Bottle ? That just slipped out of her lips! Boy, was I glad I didn't ask for colour photographs to be included. She's probably have called in Bert Stern. Lisa took the week off to go down to Los Angeles with me and in an attempt to combine business with pleasure we decided to take the coastal road. We made Santa Cruz our first stop. Santa Cruz was certainly a paradise for tourists in the summer months and I could only assume that during the rest of the year it was every bit as much a paradise for its student population. Our hotel overlooked a magnificent stretch of beach. To our left we could see the rides of the amusement park about five hundred yards away. Between the hotel and the park a wide boardwalk extended into the sea with, at its end, an observation area for sea-life. That evening we strolled down to watch the sea lions at play and then took a seafood dinner at one of the boardwalk restaurants before retiring to our hotel-room. It was there that Lisa sprung a little surprise on me. "By the way, Bill," she said, slipping between the sheets. "I'm not on the pill." "Now she tells me," I sighed. "I just thought you might like to know." "You're a nurse," I said. "You'll figure something out." "Sure I'm a nurse," Lisa said. "But I'm not a magician."
f
66
The next day we continued down the coast to Carmel where there was a mayoral election in full swing. One of the candidates was the incumbent mayor, the other was Clint Eastwood. The election was causing such a national stir that Carmel had already been rechristened 'Clintville'. From Carmel we proceeded down the coast to Santa Barbara President Reagan's hometown and entered Los Angeles by way of Malibu Beach, gawking at the mansions of movie stars as we passed along. Now, finally, I was seeing the real California. Or at least California as the rest of the world thinks of it. Everything looked so new, so clean, so artificial, so rich. I'd already lived on the west coast for two years but I still felt like a tourist. My mobile CAT scanners had never been down this way. Maybe nobody here ever got sick. That perception lasted until we reached Al van den Berghes factory in the Commerce industrial area. Here was a landscape that could have been in Diisseldorf, Tokyo or Mexico City. There is nothing so anonymous as industry. Al greeted us with a smile. He was clearly happy to see us. In his office he showed us brand new molds made of shiny, polished aluminum. There were four in all - each made up of two identical halves. Two of the molds were designed to simulate soft drink applications. The third was a bottle for general liquids. The fourth mold represented a jar for condiments, sauces, ketchups, mustards et cetera. The molds had a funny, rippled look to them. Funny as they looked, they didn't look quite a funny as the molds belonging t o another of Als customers. Mr Martinelli owned a chain of successful sex shops and his molds represented, strap-on breasts and buttocks and other assorted sexual prosthetics. Lisa was quite taken with the strap on breasts. "It's a pity you don't make things like that," she said to me. "At least you wouldn't have to create a market. I bet all the women in my church would buy some." instructed a member of his staff to set up the jar mold for production. Several anxious moments later he led us down to the machine room. From a distance we could see our first jar; it was a milky-colored thing nestling in the hands on one of the operatives. As I reached to take it from him it felt like the midwife was handing me my first child. I compressed it gently only to see it spring back to its original form. My heart missed a beat. I realized that maybe my design was no good; the bellows didn't lock at all.
67
PRIVATE SCREENING
"This is polyethylene,"said Al. "Don't worry about it. There's plenty of other plastics we can try." We tried other plastics. We spent the whole day trying other plastics. The result was identical. The bellows refused to snap shut. With all the machines working in synchronization the resulting noise reminded me of the song, Working on the Chain Gang. The racket and the smell were too much for Lisa: after an hour of having her ears and nose assaulted, she asked me to take her back to the hotel. As this was only two minutes away, I returned directly to the factory. She could have walked there quite easily but I insisted on dropping her off. I was also badly in need of some fresh air. Back at the factory we went through two additional shifts which took me up to eleven o'clock at night. Lisa was already asleep when I returned. She had ordered a meal in her room. The next morning we went through the same routine again. We would move my molds from one machine to the other - a process that took at least an hour then we would purge the machines, removing all traces of the previous plastic in order to use another type in it. That also took an hour. For the long periods of waiting caused by these operations, Al lentme the use of his motor-home which was parked outside the factory. Here, at least, I could relax and help myself to a cool drink away from the noise and smells of the machine-room. By the end of the second day, I think Lisa realized that the honeymoon was over. She was supportive and comforting but I could tell that something had changed. I was exhausted and very depressed. I too had changed. I looked five years older. Al told me that he would have the Japanese bottle analyzed in order to find out the exact nature of the plastic used in it. I wouldn't need to be there for that so we decided to head back the next day, this time taking the Harbor Freeway north. It was Lisa who suggested stopping at Long Beach. We parked on the seafront. In front of us was an immense ship. "The Queen Mary," said Lisa, with a faint air of pride. "Built in Great Britain in 1936; seventy-three thousand tons displacement; top speed fifty-seven knots." I stared at her in amazement. "She was the fastest liner afloat in her day," she continued. "Set a record of three days and twenty hours for crossing the Atlantic. That was in 1938. The record stood for fourteen years." "What's it doing here?" I asked.
68
"Nothing much," she replied. "At least, it won't break any more records, that's for sure: it's been moored here since 1967. It's a hotel now - and a museum and convention center. Just another seaside attraction, I guess. We had a craze for importing things in those days. We even bought London Bridge had it dismantled piece by piece and reassembled in Arizona or someplace. Trouble was, everybody thought Tower Bridge was London Bridge and what they got was something you can see anywhere in America. Boy, were they disappointed when they got it home from the shop!" Just as I was about to ask her how she knew so much about the Queen Mary, she beat me to it. "Did you know that Triplett supplied many of the navigational instruments for this ship? No, I don't suppose you did. My father was so proud of it! It was the high point of his life." Her expression darkened. "It's a pity we didn't share his excitement. We'd spent so many years with him away from home. And when he was home he wasn't exactly nice to be around. In fact, you could say he made our lives a misery. Whenever he went out we lived in fear of his corning back. In the end it didn't matter whether he was there or not." She paused and looked me directly in the eye. "We knew what caused it. It was pressure. Pressure of work, pressure of competition. But knowing that didn't make it any easier to handle. Why should we have been so pleased that he'd gotten the contract for this ship - for any ship, for the whole goddamned U.S.Navy for that matter? Why should we have been so proud when it was all at the expense of his family?" Suddenly, I was embarrassed. I knew I should probably be saying something but I had no idea what. "My oldest sister, Annie, ran away in the end. To California. Tracy, my other sister, got into drugs and prostitution. He drove me into a hospital career. I just want to tell you, Bill Touzani, that you scare me. I'm in love with you but you scare me. I don't want to go through all that again. It almost looks like I'm destined to have to share my life with somebody's career. I can't take any more of that." She'd deliberately brought me there to give me a lecture about priorities and it certainly wasn't what I wanted to hear at that point. "What career?" I shouted. "Look, Lisa. My career hasn't even got off the ground yet and you're complaining already. Okay, so I had to leave you alone for a few hours! I'm sorry, all right? But I'm afraid that suddenly I have to put a business on its feet and everything seems
69
PRIVATE SCREENING
stacked against me and I'm not the sort of guy who gives up without a fight." "Great!" snorted Lisa. "Now you do sound like my father!" "And quit comparing me with your father! Just because he's a businessman and I'm a businessman, it doesn't make us the same, you know." "Doesn't it?" "Why should it? That's like comparing Franklin Roosevelt and Adolf Hitler! They were both politicians so I guess they were both the same too, right? Don't you think you might be being a teensy bit unfair about this? I've got a long way to go yet and I really don't think I can afford to be slowed down by your childish preconceptions." "Childish?" "It sure sounds childish to me! Look, the bottom line is this: I've signed a written agreement and that agreement means that I have a responsibility to my partners. Like it or not, it's too late to go back now." Looking back on it, Lisa's anxiety was understandable. Sadly, she had said the wrong thing at the wrong time. Perhaps I wouldn't have been quite so aggressive had I not been so exhausted and frustrated. Perhaps, also, I was trying to convince myself as much as her. We took the Interstate 5 back to Stockton it was the quickest way to get home. We were tense with each other all the way back and I could sense that we were beginning to drift apart. The solitude of the trip gave me time to day-dream about the days that Birgit and I had spent together. I thought about how we first met. I was working with Siemens in Germany, and it had been during a weekend trip to Munich. It was a Saturday evening in the fall. Charlie, another American engineer, and I were walking down the street. Birgit passed and looked me right in the eye. I stopped and looked round at her. Charlie said: "Boy, that's one beautiful chick!" As we followed her with our eyes, open-mouthed at the vision, she stopped and looked round again. I started walking towards her. "Do you speak English?" Ja. "Listen," I said, fumbling in my pocket for a piece of paper, "we're on our way to the bus-station. We're late but...well... can I give you a call someday?"
70
"Sure," she said, handing me a pen. She gave me her number; I scribbled it down and, too soon, we were waving goodbye "Bill, you already have a girlfriend," said Charlie. "Just because you work quicker it doesn't mean that you get to call her." "Tough luck," I replied. "You had your chance. If you have some sort of trade in mind, I'd better say now that this one will cost you an arm and a leg." The following Friday Birgit took the train from Munich to Erlangen. I arranged for her to spend the weekend in my apartment. Birgit's parents were separated. Her mother, an elected politician for the German S.P.D. party, was also an employee of City Hall. Her father, as a teenager, had escaped from East Germany to the west in order to support his brothers and sisters on both sides of the Iron Curtain. He was such a hard worker that he climbed his way up to being a senior manager in Varta, a multinational battery manufacturer, and it was no wonder that Birgit held him in such high esteem and was herself ambitious. It was also pretty clear that she'd inherited a fair amount of her mother's diplomacy. My work with Siemens involved a gruelling schedule which took me from Cologne, to Erlangen and to Trieste but somehow we still managed to meet up every weekend. Finally, however, I was sent to Morocco. I wouldn't have blamed Birgit if she'd considered that too much but, as it turned out, she didn't hesitate. We took an apartment together in Casablanca and, most days, Birgit could be found stretched out on a private beach working hard on the ultimate sun-tan. It was immediately after this trip that we both decided that our life of constantly traveling from country to country, while undoubtedly interesting, was only good training for an early grave. I resigned from Siemens and we headed for the United States. In Philadelphia we took a studio apartment together. We went through a private wedding ceremony and I went to work for General Electric. It was a similar job to what I'd been doing for Siemens with the pleasant difference that I now did all my work within a fifteen mile radius. The exception to this was when I had to go to Atlantic City a matter of an hour away. Birgit insisted on coming with me. Gambling had just become legal in Atlantic City and there were some breathtaking casinos opening up : The Playboy and The Golden Nugget to name but two of Birgit's favorites. On the way to my work, I would drop her at a casino and pick up her a few hours later - she never seemed to mind if I was late. With the casinos open twenty-four hours
71
a day and overflowing with customers, she always had stories of managers offering her jobs as a hostess. "Don't be tempted," I said. "A job as a hostess can quickly become a job as an escort." I knew that she was developing a taste for slot-machines and blackjack but I wasn't really worried because I always knew how much money she took to Atlantic City and how much she came home with. On some occasions she would come home with a great deal. Yes, those were the good old days. And where was Birgit now? I couldn't imagine her working as a receptionist it just wasn't her style. God alone knew what she was doing. One thing was sure, though; if she'd been with me instead of Lisa she'd have insisted on staying in Los Angeles until the job was finished. And if it had been her father who had had a hand in building the Queen Mary she'd have been the last person to bad-mouth him. Hell, she'd have given me a guided tour of the old tub. in the late evening just in time to Lisa and I arrived in hear the telephone ring. It was Birgit. I wasn't surprised: there had always been something extra-sensory about our communications. "Bill?"she began, nervously. "I need your help. Things are getting dangerous here in Philadelphia. I've been driving a shuttle-bus for a few months from the airport to Atlantic City and people from the Mafia are making some pretty nasty offers. They aren't used to rejections and they're talking about 'taking action' if I continue to refuse. Can I come out to California. I have no other place to go." Lisa had followed the conversation very intently and was not surprised to hear me accede to Birgit's request. "Sure," I said. "You're welcome to come. There might even be a job for you here." After I hung up I explained the situation in more detail to Lisa and, contrary to my expectations, she turned out to be very supportive. She felt that she already knew Birgit from what I had told her and the pictures that she'd seen. What was more, she couldn't have it on her conscience that she'd allowed a foreigner to come to grief.
72
6 . BIRGIT
Birgit moved in. At the time, it seemed a fairly workable arrangement: when Lisa was there, she and I had the entire first floor of the house to ourselves. Birgit, on the ground floor had her own bathroom and was pretty much self-sufficient. It wasn't long, however, before friction began to develop between my girlfriend and my ex-wife. The most concrete sign of this was when Lisa began to spend a lot more nights in Stockton. It was soon quite obvious that she did not trust this platonic relationship between Birgit and me and wanted to keep an eye on us. She also made it clear that she wanted me to tell Birgit to move out as quickly as possible. Illdo it as soon as I can," I said. "But you must understand that I need Birgit's help with what I'm about to do and it'd only be a waste of money for her to live somewhere else. I really don't see what the fuss is about - the house is big enough for all of us. It's you I'm in love with, Lisa. Birgit is no more than a friend." It was interesting to see how Birgit and Lisa coped with each other. As far as Lisa was concerned, Birgit's presence was an unwelcome intrusion and, as the days went by and memories came back, Birgit developed the same sort of attitude towards her. Nowhere was Lisa's increasing frustration more apparent than in her desire to compete with this intruder. Unfortunately, the only thing they had in common was me. Birgit was experienced, sophisticated and cosmopolitan - the absolute antithesis of Lisa's wide-eyed, allAmerican, girl-next-door freshness and innocence. Instead of being content with this, Lisa made the fatal mistake of trying to match Birgit on her own terms. She set out to prove that she could take this bizarre menage-8-trois in her stride as well as any European and that Americans were just as free-thinking as anyone else. She obviously hadn't read her Henry James. In time, the entire situation became tediously competitive.
73
PRIVATE SCREENING
"In Germany," Birgit would say, "we have sex education in elementary school. Our kids know all about condoms, the pill and other methods of contraception." "So do ours," Lisa would reply, defiantly. "They told us all about the birds and the bees in Bluffton. They also told us where God comes into it. You could use a bit of that in Europe." Sometimes her defensiveness was so painfully embarrassing that I found myself stepping in on her side. In addition, Lisa started being much more openly affectionate towards me. Of course, I had no particular objection to this but it was quite apparent that she wasn't so concerned about expressing her love as displaying her rights of ownership. It came as something of a surprise when Lisa asked Birgit to accompany her on trips to Sacramento and San Francisco. It came as even more of a surprise when I discovered that a major feature of these trips was swapping information about me with particular regard to the more intimate aspects of my personality. Our home-life must have seemed pretty weird from the outside but, if the neighbors were gossiping, none of it ever came to our ears and we were never treated with anything other than the utmost politeness and civility. If an arrangement like this could even work in a small town like then everything they said about California's liberal attitudes had to be right. If I could get away with this anywhere in America it could only be there. But we were not conducting an experiment on the benefits of the extended family; we all saw this situation as a purely temporary measure and I regarded it only as one more sacrifice I had to make to see my new business take off. In fact it was something of a consolation to have a major trade show coming up and this was an event that Lisa also awaited eagerly. "Make no mistake about it, Bill," she said. "I expect you to get that damned patent off your hands so we can be normal again." "Meaning you want me to get rid of Birgit as soon as possible," I replied. "You've got it." The National Soft Drink Trade Show is one of the largest in the world to be specifically dedicated to drink products and their related industries. The 1985 NSDA show attracted tens of thousands of people - some of whom were undoubtedly drawn by its location at the Ana-
74
heim Convention Center, just across the road from Disneyland. There were certainly a large number of executives who saw the advantages of giving their kids a treat and charging the whole trip up to expenses. The Anaheim show comprised three huge halls where Coca-Cola and where everyand Pepsi-Cola alone took up an acre of body else wanted to make sure that their stand was situated in close proximity. In practice, this meant that the middle-sized companies crowded around the giants and the smaller firms were scattered around the fringes in a manner reminiscent of a flea market. Anybody who was anybody was definitely there; all the smaller companies were looking to pull off some sort of deal with the big boys and no saying was more popular than 'don't call us, we'll call you.' There were not only hundreds of exhibitors but also about a hundred thousand visitors, all of whom were in some way involved in the industry. There was also a large number of industrial spies. They didn't wear black trenchcoats and sunglasses but it was clear that not everybody taking notes and photographs was a journalist. Everyone there had a keen eye for innovation for that little something that might give them an edge over their competitors. I had been very late in reserving my booth, which meant that one of my first jobs was to go to the administration office and pay for it. I also wanted to see if any of the other exhibitors had cancelled at the last minute so that I could relocate to a better spot. "Collapsible what?" said one of the show's trade-representatives. "Bottle," I replied, almost apologetically. I pulled one out of my shoulder bag and flexed it in front of her. "Pretty neat," she said. "What will they think of next?" I knew I would get that kind of response. I had heard it several times by then and I took it as a compliment. "So can I pay for my booth by check?" "NO." I was stunned into silence. The trade rep noticed my disappointment and softened a little. "I'm sorry," she said. "We've had no previous dealings with your company and, as a late exhibitor, I'm afraid you'll have to pay cash." "You mean next year be able to give you a check? Or don't you expect to see me then?" "I don't want to sound pessimistic, Mr Touzani, but I've seen them come and I've seen them go. Look me up next year anyway." I did. I was to meet her at four future shows. She still wouldn't take a check.
75
PRIVATE SCREENING
There were no cancellations and my booth was at the remotest fringe of a fringe. I couldn't even get a place near the bathrooms, where people in dire distress might have caught a glimpse of my bottles on the way there and lingered longer on the way back. Most of the exhibitors had, after all, reserved their places up to a year in advance. My booth was a hundred square feet of empty space. The vast majority of other exhibitors certainly all the larger ones had come fully equipped with custom-made stands and expensive promotional aids. I had to rent furniture on site - long tables out, of which I made counters, and two high stools. It was a typical case of the 'beggars can't be choosers' principle; it would have cost me less if I'd bought the furniture. Behind the counters, I stacked the thousands of jars that van den had delivered that same morning. My strategy was simple: to let them have as many bottles as they wanted and then let them sleep on the idea. I already knew that with a product such as mine, a sample was worth a thousand pictures. In spite of, or perhaps even because of this simplicity of presentation, my booth immediately became a center of interest. The uniform ranks of shining, sparkling bottles soon began to attract attention from far away and, not long after the start of the show, we were suddenly swamped by a mass of people clamoring for samples. There wasn't much room for subtlety; the most that Birgit and I could do was to pass out bottles with one hand and take back business cards with the other. Between trips back to his factory to get more bottles, sat anxiously at the rear of the booth. "These bottles will crack at the hinges if you flex them a few times," he grumbled. "Make sure you tell that to your customers. I'm still searching for a better plastic." B the end of the day we had given away five thousand containers y and received two thousand personal cards in return. Things were so hectic that I lived in fear of absent-mindedly handing a future customer a set of strap-on breasts instead of a bottle. If this first day was any indication, by the time the show ended we would all be set up for life. At the close of the opening day, when the general public left, a sizeable group of journalists and soft drink executives were vying for my attention, asking for interviews and practically pleading for free promotions and appointments in a manner that I wouldn't have believed possible a day earlier. I had never been invited to so many exclusive parties in my life and I was far too exhausted to go to a single one of
76
them. A soon as I could, I returned to our modest hotel with only two s things on my mind; dinner and bed. "You got any plans for the evening?" asked Birgit, as we were eating. "Plans?" I repeated. "Sure. A soft bed and eight hours sleep." "What about all those parties you were invited to?" "They'll manage without me," I replied. "Call it playing hard-toget. What about you?" "I've been invited for a drink. Some guy from Beverage Industry." "Well if he doesn't know about drinking, nobody does," I said. "But aren't you exhausted? I can't even stand on my legs any longer. In fact I was planning to order my dinner through room-service tonight." Youre not jealous, are you? " "Jealous? Hell, no!" I replied. "We aren't married any more you're a free agent. What you do is your own business. I just don't know where you get your energy from, that's all." "He could do us some good. Beverage Industry is the trade journal, you know." "I know," I said. "But I didn't know it had a society column." We took leave of each other and I retired to our room to sleep. But suddenly sleep had become difficult. I was hovering in that betweenworld where memories of the day have not quite become fantasy when the phone rang. It was Lisa. "You're both staying in the same room, aren't you!" "Who is?" I slurred, sleepily. "You and Birgit, of course!" "Listen, Lisa," I snapped, suddenly wide-awake. "This is a big room with two large and quite separate beds. Besides, even if another room had been available, we couldn't have afforded it." "And just how large are those beds?" she retorted sarcastically. "Large enough to get lost in!" I shouted. "Which is precisely what I want to do now, okay? Its about time you realized two things Lisa; first, I'm in love with you and not Birgit and second I was married to Birgit for three years and seeing her in her underwear, or even without it, is no big deal." "I'm tired of all this, Bill," she said. "I'm tired of everything. I think we ought to talk when you get back." I was tired as well - too tired to be concerned about this. I rang off and fell asleep, only to be awakened by the sound of a key in the lock. I could almost smell Birgit tiptoeing across the room - it was the smell of perspiration and cigarettes. I opened an eye and noticed that
77
PRIVATE SCREENING
her bed had not been slept in. She swam into view and I could see that she was fully dressed. Then I opened both eyes and grabbed my watch. Six a.m.. "Where the hell have you been?" It wasn't like Birgit to spend the night with some guy on the first date. "Las Vegas." I felt a vague sense of relief but, at the same time, a tinge of concern. Birgit had been gambling again. I'd meant to get up much later than six o' clock but, now that I was awake, I got dressed and went down to the hotel restaurant. After several cups of coffee I decided to go to the show early, without Birgit. She'd probably sleep for the rest of the day. Al was already there when I arrived and we began stocking up again. Just as I was about to ask him if he wouldn't mind standing in for Birgit, she arrived smartly dressed and looking like a million dollars. "Yep. This is the German girl I know," I said to myself. Our second day was just as hectic as the first. Whenever the mass of outstretched hands allowed it, I'd go to the center of the aisle, hold a two-liter bottle above my head and play it like an accordion. "Ladies and gentlemen!" I'd yell. "Are you tired of flat sodas, beers or wines? Here's your answer! This bottle will collapse from two liters to one liter and your drink will stay as fresh as when you bought it! Two for the price of one! Roll up while the bottles last!" This wasn't such a strange thing to shout as it sounds. The bottles that I was exhibiting at the Anaheim show were intended to demonstrate a technological concept in an aesthetically attractive form but the plastic of which they were constructed still did not possess the necessary barrier qualities. What was more, if you filled my two-liter bottle with soda-pop, it still showed a disturbing tendency to turn into a three foot, liquid-filled sausage. I was relying on the fact that a large company, with technical resources beyond my present means, could overcome this problem with little difficulty. What I was presenting was essentially an attractive and commercially viable design coupled to an innovative technology. "What kind of plastic are you using in your bottles?" asked one Japanese 'tourist', taking careful aim with his Nikon. I signalled to Al behind me.
78
"It's a PET-G from Eastman Kodak," said Al. "It isn't adequate for oxygen or humidity-sensitive products. We'll be using PVC in our next production, if that meets your needs." "Can you run that by me again, Al?" I said. "I don't think I caught that properly. I certainly didn't follow it." I doubt if our curious tourist even heard his answer. He was too busy taking pictures before melting into the crowd. Al had come like a blessing. The dedication that he had shown since I first visited his factory had increased by the minute and his presence at these trade shows was to supply me with the technical expertise that I lacked and that many of our visitors were lookingfor. The worst thing you can do in that sort of situation is to talk when you don't know what you're talking about. "When I'm not here," said Al. "Just keep telling them that you're selling a concept. Don't try to teach them anything. Just let them look." Another notable visitor was a neat, well-groomed man who appeared at our booth on the third and last day of the show, accompanied by three very large individuals whom I took to be bodyguards. Since the show had not yet started, he was clearly another exhibitor. It was probably his last chance to look at our stand without using a ladder. "I like the look of your bottles," he said. "Thank you," I replied. "And who might you be?" "Oh, I'm Jack Pollack. I'm the chairman of Sewel Plastics." I'd never heard of Jack Pollack but I certainly knew who Sewell Plastics were. They had one of larger booths at the show larger as in immense and my previous research had shown that they were one of the top three plastics manufacturers in the country, if not in the world. "I'm very happy to meet you, sir" I said. And I was. "I did send you a letter asking if you might be interested in my patent. I seem to have received no reply." "You did?" he said and turned to one of the bodyguards. "Have you received anything? By the way, Mr Touzani, this is our international marketing director." "Yes, I did see a copy of his patent," confessed the marketing bodyguard, "but we didn't follow through with it." "Didn't you?" snapped Pollack, impatiently. "Well, frankly I'm amazed that you've neglected something of this importance. Mr Touzani? We'll be in touch.
79
PRIVATE SCREENING
He disappeared into the ever-growing crowd. The show seemed to have begun. I was never to hear from Mr Pollack until several years later. The real breakthrough of the Anaheim show came in the form of an Italianlooking gentleman who grabbed me by the arm while I was giving one of my demonstrations and pulled me behind the curtain. "Bill Touzani?"he said. "I'm very impressed with your concept and I think we can use it." "That's great," I said. "What do you want to use it for?" "My name is Lou Pansini," he replied. "I'm the director of new products for General Foods. You must have heard of Kool-Aid. Well, we make it." "The soft drink powder-mix?" I asked, thinking for a moment that it might be another Kool-Aid I hadn't heard of. "Precisely. As you know, our product is concentrated. If we could sell it in your bottles, the consumer would only have to expand the bottle and add water. I feel it's the cleanest and simplest way to sell concentrates." "You're perfectly right," I agreed, nodding vigorously. "So what do you want to do now?" "I would be willing to order a focus-group test to get some preliminary indication of its feasibility," he said. A focus-group test involves assembling a representative group of people from all walks of life and assessing their responses to a particular new product. This is usually a large company's first step in evaluating it and giving them an indication of its viability. If this cross-section of the general public shows a negative response to the product, there is a good chance that the company will abandon its plans to commercialize it. At the very least, they may decide to reconsider both the product itself and their marketing strategy. "Here's my card," said Pansini, finally. "I'd like you to send a couple of dozen bottles to my office in New York. Better yet, why don't you bring them with you. We might have more to talk about." Kool-Aid was certainly the most popular children's drink in the country. If Lou Pansini was for real and nothing suggested he wasn't this application might well ensure my place on the cover of 'Fortune' magazine. It was ironic that I had come to the NSDA show to sell the idea of a collapsible bottle to prolong freshness and I was leaving the show with a serious offer for an expandable bottle to dilute concentrates. It was like viewing my invention through the wrong end of a telescope.
80
I was never so happy to return to Stockton; it was like escaping from the Planet of the Apes. I had gone to Anaheim to make a few contacts if I could and I had returned with over four thousand personal cards, had given away fifteen thousand bottles and had gained the reputation of having had the most popular booth with the most innovative idea. Whoever said it never rains in Southern California? It never does rain. It pours. The telephone never stopped ringing. Hundreds of reply cards were flooding in with requests for samples and documentation. Every trade magazine had an article on us with reply inquiry numbers and every few days we were receiving print-outs listing hundreds of professional inquiries, many of which were from companies that had snubbed me in the past. In the days that followed, we were so overwhelmed with responses that Lisa, phoning from Sacramento, could never manage to say more than a single sentence without being interrupted. The showdown that she had threatened over the phone in Anaheim had never materialized. Instead, her reaction to the situation was to spend more and more time in Sacramento and correspondingly less in Stockton. She was obviously casting herself in the role of outsider and I had to admit that the fact that she kept phoning me in the middle of my business conversations with Birgit hardly helped matters. Finally I got a call from her which, more or less, boiled down to an ultimatum. "I just transferred to the evening shift," she said. "I can't come to Stockton now. " "How about coming down at the weekend?" I asked. "Let me think about it." Birgit and I were now working flat-out for sixteen hours a day. We were becoming very selective about whom we answered but even then the work-load was excessive the day was simply not long enough to get everything done. My two-car garage had now become a despatchdepot and the house itself looked like a post office in the middle of the Christmas rush. I decided to return courtesy visits to some of the people I had met at the Anaheim show. My first stop was the international headquarters of Pepsi-Cola in White Plains, New York State. Located on a hill, in several separate buildings, their offices housed some of the most aggressive marketing and research people in the world perpetually locked in a deadly battle with their arch- rivals
81
PRIVATE SCREENING
Coca-Cola. Mr Bob McGarra, their director of new products, had already assembled a team of marketing and packaging experts. I briefed them on the general concept and gave them another copy of my patent. "1 must confess that the bottles you sent me have a strange, playful effect on people," said McGarra. "I think this strong consumer-appeal could make it a good promo item for some of our fast-food chains." "You mean for Pizza Hut and Burger King?" I asked. I had been reading their corporate manual in the lobby while I was waiting. "That's right," he said. "I can see your point," I replied. "And you're certainly not the first to remark on the bottle's gimmick-appeal but I'm a bit afraid that that might blind people to its practicality. From what I've seen, gimmicks are pretty much here today, gone tomorrow." "Not necessarily," said McGarra. "As I see it," I continued, "the bottle offers great potential for your carbonated drinks market. I look forward to the day when Pepsi is sold in collapsible bottles." "I thought you said they weren't suitable for that application," objected McGarra. "Not at present, no," I replied. "But that's simply a question of using the right sort of plastic and fine-tuning the design. With the R & D facilities at your disposal, that should be no problem at all." "I think you're being too dismissive of the gimmick aspect," said McGarra. "Rest assured, Bill. Selling your bottles as a gimmick might just be the right way to get into this market. It will educate people to the advantagesof reducing volume for more freshness and having your bottles bounce from one hand to the other is sometimes the best way of advertising." I took my leave of Bob McGarra and his team shortly after he told me that the price he was looking for was twelve cents per bottle. The samples I had sent him for evaluation were the Japanese Flexiflask bottles I had purchased at five bucks a piece. It was clear that I would have to cut production costs to the absolute minimum. I was also determined that as soon as I got back to California I would develop an expandable container with grips at both ends so that people could play with it to their hearts' content. If they wanted to play, I'd give them something to play with. My next appointment was the following day with Lou Pansini of General Foods. Pansini and his team proposed an identical marketing
82
strategy to that of Pepsi-Cola and assured me that the volume would still be in the millions. He said that this would allow General Foods to assess the customer acceptance of the new container with a view to its long-term exploitation. He also asked if we could immediately develop a half-gallon container with grips on the top and bottom which would make it easily extendible for diluting Kool-Aid concentrate. It was certainly very exciting to have such large companies giving me the time of day but their proposals posed considerable risks. If they decided to have my bottles removed from the shelf to make room for the next gimmick or if, indeed, they stopped using them for any reason, it could give the wrong signal to the rest of the industry. My product might be considered nothing more than a passing fad that had lost its consumer appeal. I quickly returned to Stockton to prepare for the next show which was coming up in a few weeks' time. This USIF trade show held in Los Angeles this time, was exclusively for food products, with an emphasis on condiments. It was to compliment perfectly the NSDA show I had just attended. If there was merit to my invention, these two shows would surely tell me. Between them, they represented a vast variety of consumer products - anything from liquids to solids. My concept would be exposed to the full range of the consumer market and it would be up to the technical and marketing experts to squeeze out its prime uses. Christmas was approaching quickly and it turned out to be the best time to prepare the color brochure. Strangely enough, I had no particular desire to return to the advertising agency and allow them to rope in Bert Stern, Norman Parkinson and a few dozen models and whisk my bottles off to a tropical location. I settled for Terry Sinclair's photography shop on Eldorado Boulevard. Terry was just starting up in business and was more than happy to accept my shoestring budget in the hope that the resulting brochure would be good publicity for him. In fact he offered to work for expenses only. It was quite a jump for him from passport photographs and wedding shots to commercial photography and we had to go out and hire the specialized equipment needed for the job. We spent the following three days,- including Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Boxing Day - playing with mayonnaise, food colorings, jam, coffee, honey and other assorted substancesin an increasingly sticky and unpleasantsmelling studio. Fortunately Terry's shop was closed for the Christmas period and we weren't bothered by people wondering why they were
83
PRIVATE SCREENING
having the picture for their driver's license taken in the middle of a chimpanzees' tea-party. A well as being the book-keeper, the cook, the telephone-operator s and the general gofer, Birgit now took on the job of photographic model - a role which was by no means as glamorous as it sounds. The things Terry and I put her through would have tried the patience of a saint but she never seemed to complain in spite of the steadily increasing chaos. Whoever said you can't work with your wife? All you have to do is get divorced first. After three days I had the photographic slides for my brochure. The cost came to less than a thousand dollars which was about five times lower than a normal commercial studio would have charged me excluding the model. Birgit and I spent the next few days working on the layout of the brochure and writing the advertising copy. Finally,we were satisfied with our results and gave all the material and instructions to a professional print By the time the United States International Food Show began in Los Angeles in February of 1986, ten thousand copies of my four-page color brochure entitled A Votre were ready. This fair was a major show for food products of all sorts. Companies such as Kraft, were represented, along with hunHeinz, Kellog, Campbell and dreds of other famous brand names. Whatever food applications the previous show did not have, this show was sure to include. The focus of the show was on plastic squeeze bottles for such products as ketchup, mayonnaise and mustards which were then acquiring a measure of consumer acceptance. It was only appropriate that the next step should be a combination of the squeeze and collapsible bottles in order to keep the product fresher and provide quicker and more efficient dispensing. The advantage of the collapsible bottle, in this respect, was that it was not always necessary to allow air to enter the container in order to extrude the product. This time our booth was twice as big as before and we gave away several thousand containers but the emphasis for us was on hands-on demonstration using a variety of different food-products in order to show the potential customer exactly how the bottle operated. We showed how mayonnaise, for example, could be continuously brought to the mouth of the container by systematically collapsing the bellows. Women were especially fascinated by the idea and were delighted to walk away with a free sample jar.
84
Here again, I was faced with another technical problem: although my collapsible container was a distinct improvement on existing dispensing methods, the acid present in some of the foodstuffs, if given enough time, would probably eat right through it. What was needed was yet another manufacturing process. This one consisted of molding the container on a laminate principle building it up out of alternating layers of thin plastic and adhesive. Only a container produced by this method could guarantee adequate protection against oxidation, acidity and the passage of air or moisture. Any application for my jar would have to be considered individually and manufactured according to the product it was intended to contain, or so I understood from the explanations offered by during the show. "Whatever you say," I kept saying to him. "What would I do without you, Al?" "You'd look ridiculous. I tell you what - why don't you double my come and work for you." salary and That one always provoked a smile: knew perfectly well that I was down to my last few dollars and, for a while now, he had been providing his services free of charge. "How about if I give you a couple of shares in CBA?" I asked him. "It'll make you a millionaire in about five or ten years." "When I look at these crowds," he replied, "I know the container will make it sooner or later. Just don't forget me when that happens." By this time we were getting used to journalists and photographers stopping by. Their questions ranged from the highly technical to the absurdly personal. "Mr Touzani, would this plastic exhibit permanent deformation under repeated stress?" "Is there a Mrs Touzani, Bill?" "Birgit! Fetch your ring!" "Is this seventy-five durometer PVC?" "Tell me, Bill. What does an inventor have for breakfast?" "Jesus Christ!" It was during the second day of the show that Nancy appeared at our booth. She was working for the syndicated national TV program Evening Magazine out of its Los Angeles office and approached me for an interview which I was too busy to give. Instead, I agreed to meet her for a drink that evening. at the bar of the
85
PRIVATE SCREENING
Birgit was less than happy to see me dressing to go out, especially when I asked her not to join me. Even though we had separate beds in the hotel and separate rooms at home it was becoming obvious that she was gradually getting round to the idea of renewing our relationship. Having been in love with her before only to have been so heartbroken when she left, and having asked her to join me only to save her from a fate not-necessarily worse than death at the hands of the Atlantic City mafia, I knew that if I fell in love with her again it could only end badly. What was more, I had no time for serious romance. I was beginning to enjoy my relative independence and Nancy was a gorgeous girl. I returned to our hotel room in the early hours of the morning. A s I got undressed and slipped into my bed, I could hear Birgit sobbing quietly. I lay there for a while, listening to her and feeling rotten, and then I got up, crossed to her bed and put my arm around her. "It's okay," I said. "Nothing happened. I suppose I wanted to get my own back on you for that guy from Beverage Industry. It was to teach you a lesson, I guess. Sorry." It didn't take us long to make up. The first kiss that she gave me was the first kiss I'd had in eighteen months. But it wasn't the last. We fell asleep in each other's arms. Back in Stockton, Birgit and I still kept to separate rooms but where once we had restricted ourselves to a distant friendliness there was now a closeness between us which showed itself most obviously in the fact that we could touch each other without inhibition. Lisa had been at the house when we returned and seemed very pleased to see me. The frantic activity of the past few days had kept us out of touch with each other and before that she had been on an extended Christmas vacation to see her parents in Ohio. Yet, practical problems aside, things had cooled off between us and the close relationship we enjoyed was already a memory. She was soon back in Sacramento and Birgit and I were left alone in the house in Stockton. Then, one evening, I received a call. At last she had bothered to phone. "How are you?" I asked. The voice at the other end of the line was tight-lipped. "Pregnant. Three months pregnant." Business was now just as hectic as it had been after the Anaheim show. Birgit spent most of her time on the telephone or behind the
86
typewriter and I spent most of mine in the garage packing bottles. The thought of becoming a father was haunting me again. I had come to regard my invention as my first-born child and this really wasn't the right time to be suddenly faced with twins. It was one day at the end of February when Birgit ran into the garage yelling that there was guy on the phone who insisted on talking to me. This wasn't unusual she did it every other minute but when it caused me to raise my she mentioned that his name was Peter eyebrows. How could I forget that name? He was the jinx from Shasta. Maybe he'd accuse me of attempting to extort royalties for a patent that was no good. Maybe I should ask Birgit to tell him that I was out of the office and wouldn't be back for twenty years. On the other hand, it was just possible that Shasta had decided they were interested in the soft drink bottle after all. "Bill?" he began. "I have in front of me your color brochure A Votre and it looks like you came a long way. Can we meet?" "Sure," I replied. "When and where?" "What about if I come to your place right now?" he suggested. "Great," I said. "See you soon." I was nervous. The mountain was coming to Mohammed. Just as long as he wasn't bringing the United States Supreme Court with him! That same afternoon Peter was sitting across the coffee-table from me and telling me that he was no longer working for Shasta but was president of Capri Sun U.S.A.. "I think my company would be interested in exclusive rights for concentrated fruit-drinks to be used in your bottles," he said. "Sorry, Peter," I replied. "I don't think I can give you an exclusive on that. I already promised Kool-Aid the same application." "That's okay," he said. "Kool-Aid is a powder. We're only interested in the liquid concentrate." "You're right," I said. "I can tailor my license to be that specific." Peter accompanied me on my next trip to New York. The Wild Company, a family-owned international leader in the production of juices and soft-drinks based in Heidelberg, Germany,. was mostly known for its fruit-drink pouches marketed under the name of 'Capri Sun'. This pouch was a gasketed, foil container over which they exercised exclusive patent rights. This made me wonder whether they wanted to actually use my bottle or simply to secure it from their competitors. I knew that the most effective tactic would be to make it too
87
PRIVATE SCREENING
expensive for them to consider keeping my patent in a closet. A minimum of a quarter of a million dollars a year for the U.S. rights ought to do it. Doctor Wild was staying in a luxury suite at the Pierre Hotel in Manhattan. My meetings with him there were in the presence of Peter and a couple of German associates. After a lot of give and take, a quarter of a million dollars it was! Doctor Wild had a preliminary agreement typed out at the hotel and I left his suite with a check for twenty-five thousand dollars in my hand, representing an advance on royalties. It was the first money I had ever made directly out of my invention and it was the proudest moment of my life. Soon I was to see my bottle on the supermarket shelf. Peter accompanied me down to the hotel lobby. Before we parted, I took him by the arm and led him to a quiet corner. "Once you told me that my patent might not be any good," I whispered. "Now you give me a quarter of a million dollars for a product you were already holding in your hand then." "Bill," he said. "Ich spreche kein Englisch. Auf wiedersehen." I didn't know whether to celebrate or not. My next meeting was with Hicks and Grist, one of the world's biggest advertising agencies located in a high-rise on 42nd Street. Mr Bill Roper, its chairman, had somehow gotten hold of my brochure and had called me up and expressed interest in meeting me. He introduced me to some of his staff members and also to some of their creative work involving nationally advertised products. I was very impressed and correspondingly cautious. "I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea about me," I said. "Basically I'm just a little man in a big man's world. There's no way I can afford you as my agent." "Relax, Bill," replied Roper. "I'm not trying to get you as a client. I want to invest in you." "You do?" "You needn't sound so surprised. The collapsible bottle seems a very worthwhile investment to me. By the way, let me congratulate you on your brochure. Nice layout. Who did it?" "Bill Birgit." "Never heard of them." "They're new to the business." "Have you had any takers?" "Well," I said. "General Foods want a license for powder concentrates and Capri Sun want one for liquid concentrates."
88
"That's a good start," he replied. "If you ask me, the next logical applications would be for sports drinks and concentrated iced tea." "Iced tea?" I said, weakly. He chuckled to himself. "I know it must sound an odd choice, but I used to be president of and I think we could get some sort of deal for you there. I've also got strong links with Gatorade hence the sports drinks." "What sort of commission would you want?" I asked. "Oh, I think we could discuss that later, don't you?" I flew back home to find that Birgit had scheduled an interview with Evening Magazine for the same day. It caused quite a stir when the TV van finally pulled up in front of our house: all the neighbors came out to look. Ours was a fairly small housing complex comprising no more than a couple of dozen homes. It was secluded and quiet and most of the residents kept themselves to themselves but there wasn't much doubt that they were all entrepreneurs of some kind. The lawns were carefully manicured, the gardens neatly arranged and any double-garage door that happened to be open was sure to reveal a Porsche or a Volvo or a Jaguar or some other expensive, imported automobile. It was only when you arrived at Caprice and a Ford Maxthe Touzani residence that you found a ivan parked outside on the street. If the garage door was open, our neighbors saw a mountain of mysterious boxes within. It was the boxes, rather than our somewhat eccentric domestic arrangements, that excited the curiosity of our neighbors. I would leave home at six o'clock in the morning, collect some more boxes from the airport, and reappear an hour later to off-load them into my garage. Of course the boxes actually contained plastic bottles and had come directly from van den factory where he was testing and retesting new plastics and new molds. However, I think that as far as my neighbors were concerned, the sight of a vaguely Mediterraneanlooking man loading and unloading anonymous boxes at unusual hours pointed only to one thing: a Colombian connection. The appearance of a Channel 3 TV van put it beyond all reasonable doubt: there was a big drug-bust in the offing.If they hung around for a while, they might even witness the SWAT team in operation and, at the very least, there was a pretty good chance that they might see themselves on the evening news. The TV van disgorged a cameraman, a sound man, a make-up artist, a producer, a woman coordinator, a male interviewer and a mass
89
PRIVATE SCREENING
of equipment. There was no sign of Nancy. Perhaps Birgit had drowned her in the lake. Soon my living room looked more like a TV studio. There were cables snaking across the floor, TV monitors blinking, sound and vision checks under way, make-up being applied in one corner, costumes being adjusted in another. Finally, I was seated on the couch and interviewed about my invention. Birgit demonstrated it in the kitchen. I had never realized that recording a TV interview was such painstaking work: they spent at least two hours shooting what would take no more than five minutes to show on TV. Evening Magazine was a national, prime-time program. The exposure and interest it could generate were priceless. Suddenly it came home to me that my face would appear in millions of homes across the country as families sat down to their evening meal. That was a privilege that I'd always thought was reserved for politicians, criminals and rock stars. With thousands of inquiries coming in from all over the world requesting brochures, samples and documentation, Birgit and I - still working out of our home - were finding ourselves increasingly hard pressed to meet the demand. What was more, my partners' money totaling only a little over two hundred thousand dollars - was quickly disappearing. Any modest-sized company would have spent that much on attending a single major show. Al van den Berghe alone would normally have charged at least twice that for the work he had done for us up to that date. Fortunately for me, the interest that he had seen at first hand at the Anaheim and Los Angeles shows and in the press had persuaded him that a two percent equity in CBA was a potentially more lucrative proposition than immediate cash in hand. Now, in the spring of 1986, we were starting to focus our attention on developing an expandable two quart bottle for concentrates, as requested by Kool-Aid. Owing to unforeseen shrinkages, the bottle turned out to be only one and a half quarts, which was an unusual size for any market. Since the bottle would be retailed in its collapsed form and as it was difficult enough to introduce the customer to the concept of an expanding bottle in the first place, it was mandatory that he or she was presented with standard, recognizable sizes. A quart or a two quart or a gallon container was fair enough but an American customer would certainly have a good deal of trouble in visualizing a liter or a one and a half quart bottle. But this mold had used up my last few dollars and I was in no mood to order a larger size. General Foods, and
90
Kool-Aid, had no choice but to use this bottle for their laboratory testing and for their focus-group tests. As part of my initial agreement with Dr Wild, I had to consult Capri Sun's technical people in Germany before they would issue their next royalty fee, which was now due in only a few weeks' time. First I decided to stop in New York City and visit the headquarters of the Mitsui Corporation in the Pan Am Building. Mitsui had expressed serious interest in my invention and had invited me to come and see them. It was an offer I certainly couldn't ignore: they were a multi- billion-dollar company whose market-place was virtually anywhere that fitted between the two Poles and, for all I knew, beyond. No sooner had I shaken hands with their senior technical director and his team of associates than I was pushed into a conference room and asked to take a seat. To my surprise, on the table in front of me were several of the same Flexiflask bottles I was carrying with me. I had even taken the trouble of melting off the Japanese inscription on their bases so as not to raise their suspicions about my patent validity. I thanked God that I hadn't shown them my bottles first: they would have immediately realized that I had something to hide. "Well, Mr Touzani," said the director. "We're very impressed with the collapsible bottle technology, as you call it. The A Votre Sante brochure shows some incredible potential for its applications and we might well be interested. As you probably know, we own several plastics production facilities. In fact one of our subsidiaries manufactures a bottle that seems to have the same features as yours." He gestured to the bottles on the table in front of me. "They've been producing these for years now," he added. To say I felt uncomfortable would be quite an understatement. "Have you filed a patent for them in Japan?" I asked. Of course." "And in the United States?" "No. At least, I don't think so. You see, to be honest with you, we never really considered them significant enough. For us, they've never been more than a children's toy. I must congratulate you on developing further applications for them." It was definitely beginning to look as if Mitsui's interest did not extend to negotiating a license to market my bottle. The director regarded me levelly. The ball was now in my court.
91
PRIVATE SCREENING
"Well what I propose is this," I said, rising from my seat and making my way towards the door. "You keep out of my hair and 1'11 keep out of yours. Sayonara." I took the elevator to the main entrance feeling as if I'd been put through the worst humiliation of my life. Worse than that, I felt like some thief who had been caught with his hand in the till. At least I could be thankful that I hadn't tried to take action against the distributor of those bottles in the U.S.: he would have sued me for every penny I had. More likely yet, he wouldn't even have bothered with me - you can't get blood from a stone and you certainly can't get money. I arrived in Frankfurt with jet-lag. Normally it would have taken me at least three days to recover. I had three hours. Klaus, the Wild Company gofer, picked me up from the airport. Thankfully, after such a long flight, it took us only twenty or so minutes to reach my hotel in the center of Heidelberg. "This place is very popular with Americans," he claimed. "I think you will feel at home here." Why do well-meaning people always think that Americans are only at home when they're surrounded by other Americans? The hotel was large and old and scrupulously clean. Sure enough, there was a lot of American spoken there but everybody seemed to be my grandfather's age or older. It was obvious to me that the hotel's popularity owed itself largely to war veterans whose last view of Heidelberg had been from the turret of a Sherman tank forty years earlier. I had spent enough time in Europe in the past to be suspicious of places like that. Perhaps nostalgia could justify two hundred dollars a night for these war veterans but I would have expected a suite with a Jacuzzi for that sort of money. In fact, my room was no bigger than my booth at Anaheim and if Birgit had been with me I'd probably have ended up sleeping on the floor. Europe can be much more expensive than the United States. My European customers would expect me to stay in luxury hotels or, failing that, with friends: anything less and the chances were that they would not take me seriously. In fact it would be true to say that they usually expect one of two things from their American counterparts: either they are selling a proven technology or they're coming with lots of money. In my case I had neither. For the next few days, at least, I could still hide behind my credit cards after that I would have to start calling my ex-girlfriends.
92
At two p.m. precisely on the day of my arrival, Klaus dropped me at the company headquarters. Heidelberg is the oldest university town in Germany and is justly famed for its beauty. The Wild Company was situated in one of its prime locations. Dr Wild received me in his office and then led me to a conference room where a team of half a dozen men dressed in white coats were waiting for me. They greeted me with smiles and then, after the introductions, the oldest of the group said: "Mr Touzani, your bottles are sheep." "He means sharp," corrected Dr Wild. "The outside edges of your bellows are too sharp," he continued, "and could cause punctures even if the bottles were to knock against one another in transit. We suggest that you round them off a bit for better shock-absorption." "No problem," I said. Ill take care of that right away." There were also other complaints: the quality of the plastic I was using being one of the most significant. Naturally, I assured them that we would resolve all problems without delay. We then retired to Dr Wild's office where I wanted to talk to him about another business proposition. "I do have European patents that have not been licensed yet," I said, "and which are not the province of the CBA company. I could make you a special deal for Europe." "Let's see how your bottles perform in the U.S. first," replied Dr Wild. "We're not fond of taking risks here in Germany. I'm afraid we're a lot more conservative than you Americans. Under n o circumstances do I wish to jeopardize the reputation of my family." "Well," I said, "if my bottle were to fail in the United States and tarnish your U.S. operation, the Americans could be just as unforgiving." "Unforgiving, maybe," he answered. "But it would be quickly forgotten." My next meeting, with another customer, was scheduled for a little over a week later in Paris. I had plenty of time to kill so I rented a car and decided to drive to Erlangen and visit some of my old friends from Siemens and my ex-girlfriend Claudia. Claudia had been my girlfriend at the time I met Birgit. It hadn't been a very serious affair. When I met Birgit our relationship ended on friendly terms and we'd even managed to stay in touch over the years. She still lived in Erlangen, where the Siemens company was based.
93
PRIVATE SCREENING
Mr Ungerer, the international director for the Siemens medical division, was always happy to see me as his life tended to change slightly after each time we met. When I showed him the A Votre Sante brochure and briefed him on recent developments, he was full of admiration. "I knew you'd make it big one day, Bill. You were far too restless to be a technician for long. Maybe Siemens can find some applications for your invention in the medical field. Bellows are used in lots of areas even in intensive care. Who knows?" "Yes, who knows," I said to myself, as I left his office. The ramifications of this technology were proving to be beyond anyone's immediate grasp. At this rate I could well end up in intensive care myself. Would I really trust my bellows to pump blood into my heart? Maybe they'd just snap shut and never let go. Claudia was pleased to see me and so, unfortunately, was her fiance. Martin owned a used-car dealership and, like a true professional, he immediately offered to sell me a second-hand Mercedes. "Why pay a thousand dollars a week for rental cars?" he said. "For ten grand I can sell you a great 280SL. In only a few trips to Europe you'd more than break even. After that I could still take it back from you, if you wanted." "I'm not so sure about that," I replied. "Oh, what the hell! Throw in Claudia and a CD-player and you've got yourself a deal." Claudia's parents were divorced. Her father was Dutch and lived in The Hague where she frequently visited him and his new family. "We're driving there tomorrow if you'd care to follow us," she said. "Why not?" I replied, "It's almost on my way to Paris - if you don't bother with a map." In the past, my visits to Europe had either been for specific reasons - swim meets, attending conventions, CAT scanner maintenance - or had been purely for pleasure. Now my attitude was entirely different. I wanted to know as much as possible about Europeans: their opinions, their way of life, their business-style, what they ate, what they drank, what products they bought, how they dressed, how they interacted with each other. I would walk through supermarkets and examine the shelves to see not only what sort of things were popular in general but also, more particularly, to gauge the Europeans' familiarity with juice concentrates. While a Frenchman visiting Germany, for example, would probably be struck by the differences with his own country, I, as an Ameri-
94
can, tended to notice the similarities between one European,nation and another and the great differences that existed between all of them and the United States. To enumerate all of these differences would certainly take up a book by itself and so Ill restrict myself to what was, for me, the most important point. Environmental issues are much more to the fore in Europe than they are in the U.S.. In such an overcrowded continent there are no wide- open spaces where trash can be dumped out of sight and out of mind. In Europe, one man's trash-can is another man's problem. Consequently there is a great emphasis on recycling and reusing: even the humblest snack-bar will give you coffee in a china cup or a drink of soda-pop in a real glass. In supermarketsyou will only receive a plastic bag if you ask for it and then, most likely, you will be expected to pay. The result of this is that the same plastic bag often gets used again and again - usually until the bottom falls out of it. Although no- deposit bottles certainly exist they are priced higher than returnable bottles. Europe, to put it briefly, is not a throwaway society. Admirable as this might be, it posed a thorny problem for me. It was going to be hard enough to persuade the American consumer to dispose of my collapsible bottle rather than hang onto it and reuse it, but in Europe this was clearly going to be a nightmare. Another side-interest of my European trip was the availability of office space since, probably sooner rather than later, my European customers would want me within easy reach of them. I'm sure they really wouldn't have minded coming to visit me in California as they would certainly have combined business and pleasure and let their company pick up the tab. But in my case, I was the company and money and time were hard to come by. It was a happy coincidence when Claudia mentioned that her half-sister Tammy was looking to share her offices. Tammy was co-owner of a travel agency which specialized in European bus-tours and was based in Scheveningen, a Dutch coastal resort adjacent to The Hague. She was certainly persistent in her efforts to persuade me to share her offices. For a thousand dollars a month I could have my own private office, and the key, and make free use of her secretaries. She would also throw in a free weekend trip to the European capital of my choice. Claudia had warned me about what she called her sister's 'eccentricity' but Tammydidn't seem at all eccentric to me. It was a feature of her personality that I had yet to discover. Tammys mother was Indonesian and Tammy herself was a tall, attractive brunette with the fine bone-structure and natural poise that
95
PRIVATE SCREENING
Eurasian girls so often have. She had met her first American businessman through a small ad which had read 'Private secretary needed. Passport a must.' and had then spent an entire year traveling back and forth between Puerto Rico and Holland. That job had come to an end when her boss decided that, all things considered, he preferred blondes instead. Claudia and Martin returned to Germany after the weekend but I stayed on - Tammy had professed an interest in showing me some down-home Dutch hospitality. No sooner was Claudia out of sight than she came to my hotel room with a bottle of wine. "Don't believe anything Claudia says about me," she said. "I just love Americans and I'm here to prove it." She proved it all right. Afterwards, she offered me a free weekend trip to Paris and her services as a chaperone. The next day we were on our way. Paris was hardly a new experience for me. I had been there on several occasions on business and had spent a large slice of my teenage years at Poissy, half an hour away. When the bus stopped on the left bank of the Seine and disgorged its culture-hungry tourists in the direction of monuments and art galleries, Tammy and I took a taxi to the Tour Montparnasse a huge steel and glass block dominating the skyline to the south of the city. My appointment there was with a certain Kamal Laraqui whom I had never met before. The meeting had been arranged by my father who had apparently been a class-mate of Kamal's father back in Morocco. Before I had created the CBA company, my father had offered his own financial backing and, when I declined, had suggested my taking on the Laraqui family as partners. Kamal's uncle was Moulay Ahmed Laraqui, the Prime Minister of Morocco, and his father had once managed the assets of the Moroccan royal family but was now the chairman of a multi-million dollar company with offices in many countries. Any international bid put out by a Middle Eastern or North African nation, whether it involved irrigation projects, construction of dams, highways or bridges, would see his company in the thick of it. Kamal's offices in the Tour Montparnasse were among the most luxurious and prestigious in the city and it was there that I was introduced to a red-haired, very un-Moroccan individual, his French wife and his two perfectly blonde daughters. "You're a very popular man in Morocco. Do you realize that?" he asked.
96
"It's news to me," I replied. " few months back, every newspaper in the country had an article A about your invention. I'm glad I finally got to meet you." "I'm surprised they've heard of an American invention in Morocco." I confessed. "Apparently you had some high-level meetings with the director of the Moroccan Industrial Development Agency? Mr Bel Khayat? Well, he passed the information on to the media." "Yes, you're right," I said. "I did have a few meetings with him. I asked him to see if the Moroccan government could allocate some R & D money for my project. It was nice of him to broadcast my plea over the airwaves." "Well, he certainly did, Bill. In fact he might even be more useful to you now than he was then. He's just been appointed ambassador to Washington." "Good for him," I said. "He'll be a credit to the country." We were soon on friendly terms and he invited Tammy and me to dinner that same evening at a Lebanese restaurant off the Champs Elysees. It was quickly becoming apparent that Kamal and I would make a great team. By the end of our time together we had agreed that though it was too early to establish firm business arrangements - the door was open for any future talks when a European operation finally started up. As our taxi sped back to the hotel, Tammy seemed to agree with my verdict on the evening. "Well," she said, finally. "He may be able to offer you better business facilities but I don't think he'll ever match my fringe benefits." I had to agree.
97
7 . MEL
I returned to California from my European trip to find that Birgit was beginning to get bored. The flood of follow-ups that we'd been receiving was now no more than a trickle and at times she felt severely underemployed. "I can't believe we sent out all those thousands of letters and hundreds of packages and received so few replies," she said. "I wonder if these people know something we don't." "You could well be right," I replied. "To be perfectly honest with you, Birgit, I think our containers could do with substantial improvement. They look good in pictures but they just don't perform under laboratory conditions. They probably scare the hell out of these companies. Their insurers must be waving white flags." I had expected a slowdown in business - these companies would need time to assess the feasibility of the new container and how it would fit in their overall strategy but I certainly didn't expect them to be quite so silent. Now it was becoming increasingly obvious that overnight deals were not going to happen: we had given our customers food for thought but they were going to need a long time to digest it. But how about my patent? Had they conducted independent searches and decided that it was unenforcable? Even if they'd decided it was, why should it stop them from pursuing this new technology by competing in the open market? Maybe they had come to the conclusion that the technology itself was not workable. Why didn't they just tell me what they thought, even out of simple courtesy? I was feeling ignored and very disillusioned. I had spent all my money in an effort to help them make up their minds and now they didn't even bother to acknowledge my approaches. Admittedly, there were still a few individuals curious enough to request information and samples but now these people were getting boxes that bore the names Sony and Panasonic because we were too poor to afford proper packaging. Birgit and I were now making the rounds of all the electronics
98
stores in the neighborhood and rummaging through the trash to find suitable boxes. One day, as we were plumbing the murky depths of 'Alfonso's HiFi Superstore', the whole idea of being a glorified garbage collector became too much for me. "I can't tell you how humiliating this is, Birgit," I mumbled, emptying styrofoam nuggets out of yet another box. "I never expected an easy ride but I had no idea I might face this sort of let-down." "Why don't you talk to Dr Schwemley?" Birgit suggested. "Your partners have an option on six additional shares that they promised to buy before November. Why should they wait till the last minute? If you ask me, it's now or never." "Give me one good reason why they should invest more money," I replied, hopelessly. "How about the agreement that you have for the Capri Sun product? The Wild Company paid you twenty-five thousand dollars for it. That should mean something." "You're right," I admitted, "but we won't see more of that unless I can build better containers. And I can't build better containers if I don't have any money." "So you need money to make money," she sighed. "That's always the way it goes, isn't it? Catch twenty-two again." It wasn't more than a few days after this conversation when a letter from Capri Sun U.S.A. arrived. We were expecting a fifty thousand dollar royalty check from them and we almost fought over who was to open the envelope. To our dismay, however, the letter, which was signed by Peter Willis, was not accompanied by a check. It notified us of their termination of agreement and wished me luck. At that moment, luck seemed a very rare and expensive commodity indeed. I had spent nearly one year trying to sell the technology of my patent before I started the CBA partnership. Since then, another year had passed and the results were no better. In fact my general situation was infinitely worse. I didn't even have my full-time job with Picker to fall back on and if I went to ask for a job I could just see the face of the interviewer when I told him I'd been selling collapsible bottles for the past year. I decided to call Dr Schwemley after all. He was the only one of my partners who had ever showed any interest in either the bottle or its inventor. Indeed, he had even used the business as an excuse to
99
PRIVATE SCREENING
come to our house and chat to Birgit and me. I asked to meet him over lunch in a nearby restaurant. "Nice food!" said Dr Schwemley, as we tucked into our starter. "But I don't suppose you asked me here with gastronomy in mind. What's the problem?" "I need money," I replied. "I imagined you would. Two hundred thousand doesn't go very far these days." "A million or two million dollars would do it." "I dare say it would at that." "But I'd settle for whatever option shares the partners wanted to cash in. The deadline to do that is approaching and there's no reason to wait till the last moment. That represents about ninety thousand dollars. I could use that to develop a range of camping bottles like the Japanese containers. It would mean a change of strategy, that's all. We'd be distributing our own products instead of granting licenses." Dr Schwemley sighed and shook his head. "I wouldn't give much for your chances of success." "Why not.'' "Because I think my partners have given everything they're prepared to give, that's why. They don't know where the money's going. Sometimes I don't think they even care!" "Well I certainly haven't used it to buy myself a yacht!" "I'm sure you haven't. In fact I know you haven't because you use my own accountant. He keeps me perfectly up to date with your situation and your overdue bills. In fact it seems to me that you've been using him for a free ride." "To be honest with you, one of the reasons why I've been using your accountant is so that you do know exactly what's going on in the business. As to the free ride, I plead guilty but it was only intended to be a temporary measure. After all, you are an important customer of his and you are a partner in CBA." "I don't need to know what's going on in the business, Bill. If I didn't trust you, I wouldn't have gotten myself involved in the first place. But if it's a cheap accountant you're looking for, my son Kevin will soon be graduating. If your situation improves in the future maybe youcan use him." 1' " 11 hold you to that. I like the idea of keeping things in the family." "To be frank," Dr Schwemley continued, "I don't think it would worry the other partners unduly if you had spent their money on a
100
yacht. At least there'd be something to show for it. No, Bill. How the money was spent is pretty much beside the point. I told you before that the partners only got involved in this project as a favor to me. After a year without any sign of a profit I very much doubt if they'll exercise their options." "Well what am I supposed to do?" "If I were in your shoes, I'd ask for my old job back." "And forget the business?" "It looks as if the business has forgotten you. If it hasn't ...well...these companies know where to find you. You've shown them the technology now it's up to them. "And that's all there is to it?" "If you want my candid opinion, I'd have gotten into the business of direct distribution from day one. But I guess it's easy to be wise after the event, isn't it. Well, you could always give this new strategy a try, I suppose." "Look, Dr Schwemley," I said desperately. "I do not have any money! I had to think twice before I even invited you to lunch and I certainly don't know whether I can pay the rent this month." "Neither does half of California. he chuckled. "No, I'm sorry, Bill. I know this is no laughing matter. Look, if you have difficulty in paying the rent, you know you can always come to me. That's no big deal as far as I'm concerned. And lunch is on me, okay?" "No way!" I replied. "I invited you, remember?" "It's tax-deductible, Bill. The I.R.S. is picking up the tab." "Well since you put it that way, can I see the wine list?"
I had gone to Dr Schwemley feeling hopeful but I left him feeling very disappointed and depressed. He had been right, of course. I could have produced bottles similar to those imported ones and put them on sale immediately. Instead of sending out promotional and technical information, I would have sent price lists. I had been too naive or, maybe, too overconfident. On the other hand, the initial response from these companies had been enormous and if even a small fraction of the many possibilities had actually materialized, we would have been a big success already. However, now it seemed that I had no alternative but to abandon the whole project and start searching for a job. I called Picker International in San Francisco. Susie, the receptionist, recognized my voice and asked how the bottles were doing. I had stopped by the office a couple of times to give everyone there a free sample and some brochures. They had all been fascinated and were
101
PRIVATE SCREENING
waiting for the day when they would see my name in Business Week. Now that I asked to speak to the service manager, Susie was more than a little surprised. "Ron's left the company, Bill," she said. "We have a new service manager now. Would you like me to connect you?" Oh no! This wasn't what I'd had in mind at all. "Some other time, Susie. Thanks anyway." In a way I was relieved that I didn't get to speak to Ron. He had personally hired me two years earlier and had invested a great deal of time and money in my training only to see me leave for some business of my own. His boss certainly hadn't looked favorably on his badjudgement and it must surely have affected his record. Eventually we were back on speaking terms and after I had shown him the samples of my products and brochures, he'd had to admit that I'd made the right decision. Asking for my old job now would have been humiliating for me and uncomfortable for him. As if all this wasn't bad enough, among the few letters that were now coming in, there was one from a law firm in Washington State. It felt ominously weighty and, as I opened it, I wondered if we were fating our first law-suit. Maybe somebody had lost a finger by trapping it between the bellows. More likely their Persian carpet had been ruined by leaking juice. But how was that possible? As far as I knew, we had not yet sold a single bottle. A I started reading the first lines I realized that the law-firm had s been retained by Lisa Triplett. The envelope contained a set of documents for me to sign, as the alleged father, for the purpose of giving up her unborn child for adoption. I had not spoken to Lisa in several months but it seemed only like days to me. Now, these cold, impersonal documents turned my stomach. Had Lisa been some naive, teenage girl, incapable of raising a child and unable to support it, I could have understood her but she was a pediatric nurse, she had the support of her family and I had certainly never denied her mine. The very idea of a mother giving up her child unless it was in the very worst of circumstances was a mystery to me. Try as I might, I could not work up any sympathy for her. The thought even occurred to me that she might just be trying to blackmail me back into a relationship. If that was the case, it was a pretty sick way of doing it. I knew I would never forgive her for this. She claimed to be a good Christian: was this what they taught her at her Bible-study classes?
102
I decided to call her and discuss the matter. She agreed to my request and suggested meeting at the Good Earth Restaurant. As I waited for her to arrive I began to wonder if this wasn't all a set-up; perhaps she wasn't pregnant at all. But as she walked into the restaurant I saw that her stomach was up to her chin. Everyone else noticed it too it was hard to miss when their chins only came up to her stomach. It was all a stark contrast to our first dinner together less than one year earlier. "It's a boy," she said. "You can touch him if you like." I gently caressed her stomach. Something moved. My hand immediately retracted. I think my whole being tensed at that moment. Lisa already knew that I would never consent to giving up the baby for adoption but I was careful not to make her feel guilty by suggesting that she might have failed in her duties as a mother. "Lisa," I said, "I'm willing to pay for child support and Ill help you the best I can." She flashed me a contemptuous look. "How can you even think of making a promise like that in the sort of business you're in? It's been one year now. I want you to tell me honestly if you see a future in it?" She was staring me right in the eye. I felt embarrassed. I vividly remembered the fight we'd had in Long Beach when she had accused me of preferring my business above my personal life and now I could see that it really wasn't worth it at all. No one should ever tamper with their family and their security. "I'm getting out of it, Lisa. You were right. I failed. I'm going back to my old career. I miss chatting with nurses." I left her and took the highway south to Stockton, still with that tingling feeling in my hand. I had been less than an inch away from touching my son. I wondered if he had also reached out for me.
Birgit didn't even bother asking me about the meeting - she had a pretty good idea of what had gone down. I think my silence was far more eloquent than anything I could have said. She was unnaturally quiet too. I could understand how cheated she must have felt. Having spent four years with me, she was a more eligible mother than Lisa who had gotten herself pregnant after only one brief game of doctors and nurses. She had probably thought that Lisa was little more than a mirage in my life. Now she knew that she was something more permanent and I was quickly coming to that
103
PRIVATE SCREENING
same conclusion myself. Everything that I'd done before then was starting to look like nothing more than a game. A few days later I was called to the Memorial Hospital where Lisa had given birth and there, lying beside her, was Andrew. He was a healthy boy of eight pounds ten ounces and when I saw his toes I knew, without the slightest doubt, that he was mine. His grandmother, however, who was sitting next to me, was not so convinced - she spent the whole time looking me over. In retrospect, this wasn't a particularly flattering tribute to her daughter but I was damned if I was going to remove my shoes and socks just to satisfy her curiosity. My life was no longer going to be mine alone; another being was going to be dependent on it. He was going to need a lot of love and security and I had so little to give him. I could not even guarantee him regular hours or regular support. Had my own father seen me then, he would have said that I had disgraced the family. The next day, a man called from Sacramento and asked for a meeting. Knowing that there was nothing written in my diary, I asked him to wait so that I could consult it. Mel Hardman arrived at my house in a suit and tie, looking as if he meant business. He was a well-groomed, handsome gentleman in his forties very polite and determined. He was holding the A Votre Sante brochure in his hand. At first I naturally assumed he either got it from one of the shows or that Birgit had mailed it to him. "Your barber does some great advertising for you." he said. "A friend of mine is also one of his clients and that's how I received your brochure." I was surprised that one of the hundreds of brochures I had scattered around California had finally found its way into the right hands. I always carried a supply of them with me wherever I went; my barber had several of them and also the bottles. I had left my brochures in hotel lobbies, doctors' offices and at airports. I frequently went to the Mosconi Convention Center in San Francisco and to the Anaheim Convention Center to leave dozens of copies in the entrance lobbies. Wherever businessmen gathered, I wanted to be there to set the bait. "I'm not going to claim to be Tupperware or Rubbermaid," said Mel. "I don't even own shares in those companies. But I believe I can make a new line of reusable houseware that would compete head to head with them and, with your technology, I would have a definite edge. I'd be providing the consumer with the idea of 'one container
104
fits all'. If you give me exclusivity on this category I promise you we can clean up. Just tell me what your price is." I almost wanted to laugh; it would really be ironic if, after attending several major shows, having contacted hundreds of prominent companies and individuals and having gone all the way to Europe in order to secure an option license for America, I was to find my first real American licensee through the efforts of my barber. Three months earlier, with the kind of interest and promises I had received, would have had to have given me some very strong references and credentialsin order to even discuss licensing with me. Now I was willing to consider anything and anybody. I showed the range of collapsible bottles we had produced to date. "I think these things are great," he said. "They've got enormous potential. Just one thing, though. You haven't shown me this bottle here. Have you got a sample?" He pointed to the picture of the Japanese bottle in the A Votre brochure. That damned Japanese bottle again. "I'm afraid that's not one of ours," I said. "It's a similar product imported from the Far East that I simply used in the brochure to illustrate further possibilities and applications for the design. It retails here at five dollars." "Have you got a sample?" "Sure." I fetched him one of the bottles. He examined it with interest "I'm not surprised that this sells for five dollars," he said. "It's more than just a simple bottle. They've taken great care to dress it up with all kinds of plastic gadgets to make it worth the cost a custom-made closure and handle, a snap-on cup. It makes it look far more sophisticated than a simple empty container. I think that's very necessary nowadays the average consumer assumes that anything made of plastic must be inexpensive." "Are you saying that a collapsing container on its own is not enough to impress the buyers?" "No offense, but that's exactly what I'm saying." I guessed at where this line of discussion might be leading. "Are you, by any chance, planning to develop your products in the Far East?" I asked. "It's possibility I have to consider. Don't forget that if you can assure them a market-place, the Asians will provide you with free R D."
105
PRIVATE SCREENING
"Well, I'd certainly welcome any assistance. All I know now is what I've learned on the job." I was happy to listen to Mel's ambitious plans and was impressed by his international vision. "I like you, Mel," I said. "I can see you're sincere. But I'm afraid that things aren't quite so simple as you seem to think. If you're willing to commit yourself to develop new containers and pay a minimum royalty of forty thousand dollars this first year, I'd be prepared to extend exclusivity of the U.S. market to you. These are the only two performance requirements that I would ask from you at this point but without them I'm afraid we can't do business." "It sounds very reasonable to me," replied. have my attorney draw up a contract and come down and see you tomorrow." "That's fine," I said. "But don't expect me to sign anything then. still have to run it by my own attorney." I knew very well that I couldn't pay an attorney to advise me on the licensing agreement. My remark had been mostly intended to deter from trying to pull a fast one. A lawyer would certainly have rejected the whole thing, written a fifty page document, charged me five thousand dollars for it and dragged the whole business on for two months. When left, Birgit and I could not believe what had just happened. "Did I hear right?" asked Birgit. "This man is willing to pay you forty grand? And pay for his own molds? Why the hell didn't we meet him a year ago? We wouldn't have needed those lousy partners of yours." "Oh, I wouldn't say that," I replied. "We could always have invested their two hundred thousand in a pizzeria." I called Bill Hoskins at "Long time no see," I said, in a probably quite futile attempt to make him feel guilty. "I need your assistance. A potential licensee is coming in with a contract tomorrow and I'd like you to review it for me." "I'm sorry," came Bill's unapologetic voice. "I can't do that. If I gave you any sort of advice I could be liable. You see it would be against my status as a silent partner in the company." Bill!" I shouted. "Why the hell do you think I gave you those two shares in the first place? Not only have you never helped me find any customers but now you don't even want to look at a contract.
106
If you ask me, you're embarrassed by the bottle. You think it might tarnish your reputation." There was a prolonged silence at the other I just hung up. Birgit had been listening to the conversation. "Well, now you can put a cross against all of your partners," she declared, angrily. "I'd say their decision to invest in the company was just as impulsive as yours when you filed for the patent. None of you had any idea where you were going." Whether or not I'd known where I was going was a debatable van den had been point but what made me angry was that day and night for months in return for a two percent equity had done absolutely nothing to justify his two perwhile Bill cent. What I had asked him to do would have taken him less than an hour but he had preferred to hide behind the letter of our agreement. did turn up the next morning But, surprisingly, with a three-page typed agreement for the U.S. market and a singlepage option agreement for Mexico. The U.S. agreement reflected everything we had spoken about earlier and did not include any of the legal jargon that most lawyers like to see - even though it was drafted by an attorney. "Rodney Commons worked on this contract last evening," said Mel. "He's an excellent attorney and has large experience of international business. He and I both feel there must be substantial opportunity for your containers abroad. I know the President of Mexico, Miguel de la Madrid, personally and I would appreciate having an option for Mexico." "I'm sorry, Mel," I replied. "The filing for the collapsible bottle patent has only been done for the United States and Europe and can no longer be extended to other countries. The one year grace period for doing that has long since expired. I do, however, have a Canadian patent dealing with basically the same technology but restricted to wide-mouthed containers. I'm sure you could file that in Mexico." "Well, that's not so bad," said "I wanted these Mexican housewives to put their cornmeal in jars anyway. Not bottles." I showed a draft copy of the Canadian patent. He read it closely and seemed to think that it was worth protecting in Mexico. A s he was doing so, an idea occurred to me. "I do have another technology that we could add to this application - just to give it a better chance of acceptance," I said. "What is it?" asked Mel.
107
PRIVATE SCREENING
"Well, you probably know this already but, in most plastic products, whenever two parts are supposed to fold together they usually score a little channel to facilitate the folding." "Yes, I know what you're talking about." walked over to the shelf next to the TV and pulled out a videocassette. Removing the cassette itself, he showed me the channeled groove along the folding part of the box. "This sort of hinge can be found almost anywhere. Just look at your shampoo closures with their flip-tops. So what's your point in all this?" "Well, this is a long shot," I said, with a feeling of relief that had some experience in plastics, "but if we add claims to the Canadian patent referring to a groove on the inside hinges of the bellows to facilitate folding, they might just buy it. Of course, I couldn't guarantee that it would actually work in practice. My technical consultant van den in Los Angeles tells me that a groove of that sort makes it practically impossible for the finished containers to drop out of the molds. It would only be worthwhile for one-off, specialized products not for mass production." "So you wouldn't recommend we construct our bottles using this design?" "Not really, no. We've finally managed to pin down a plastic a kind of polypropylene that works perfectly for our existing design. I'm not about to venture into other technologiesat this point. We have to start making money with what we've got." "Well that suits me fine," said "Personally, I have no complaints about your present bottles. I just need them in different dimensions, that's all. Why don't you go ahead and ask your attorney to incorporate this hinge in the Canadian patent? All I need is something that will allow a patent to be issued in those countries; it doesn't matter how far-fetched it is. My only interest is in dissuading people from manufacturing your product in Mexico and exporting it to the U.S. market." "In other words you need someone on the spot a sort of local policeman to track down illegal exporters. Yes, that's exactly the reason why I'm filing the Canadian patent in the first place. It's not that I'm greedy after all, the Canadian market is a tenth the size of the U.S. market." "You got it, Bill. Whenever money is made legally someone'll tend to try and make it illegally. But I think that if you wave the threat of a Mexican jail over people's heads it'll probably be enough to persuade them not to infringe our patent."
108
"All right. ask Jim Deimen to write it up but I'm afraid 111 have ' to ask you to pay all the fees." pay for everything," said Mel, shrugging his shoulders. "On the condition that you let my attorney deal with your patent attorney directly." Hardman," I said, "you've got yourself a deal." left behind a ten thousand dollar check. Birgit and I it all the way to the bank. back on this meeting now, it's hard to believe that this man was to affect the rest of my life so radically. Although he jumpstarted the business all over again, he walked away with an exclusive agreement worth millions of dollars for less than the price of an average-sized house. It was an agreement that was to last no more than a year. The few hours that he had spent at my home were to lead directly to the creation of a one hundred million dollar business over the following three years and were to be indirectly responsible for legal disputes that would scar me forever. All in all, despite the fact that he gave my business a new lease of life, Mel Hardman was certainly a man I could have done without. He was indisputably honest but he had bad judgement and through him I got to know entirely the wrong people. ordered his first high-production molds to my exact specifications enough to produce over ten million bottles a year. They proved to be beautiful containers and were to be standard in our line of products for years to come. When I called Jeims Deimen he had already received my rough notes. "Of course," he said, "the idea behind these grooves of yours is nothing new. It's widely accepted practice whenever folding plastic parts are concerned. If the purpose of them is to thin out your hinges in order to make them flex better, then it'll just be putting down in specific terms what we said in broad terms in your initial patent. If you asked me, you could go ahead and use them right now and you'd still be protected. All the same, I've got to say that you never fail to amaze me." "Why's that?" "Well, I've seen many inventions which were the natural culmination of research, and I've seen a few which were the result of accidental discoveries but I've certainly never seen any that were the result of ignorance."
109
PRIVATE SCREENING
"What do you mean?" I asked, thinking that maybe this was some sort of patented insult. "I don't mean your ignorance particularly. Our ignorance would be more precise. We filed a patent claiming that the inner hinges should be thinnest simply because neither one of us comprehended the manufacturing process correctly. Now it looks like our ignorance proves to be the real value of your patent. You discovered a practical way of producing a thin inner hinge which still falls within your claims." "Are you saying we don't need to file a separate patent?" could file one for hollow "Not if it's only for bottles. articles in general which would give you almost limitless possibilities for containers and beyond." My U.S. patent, entitled Collapsible Hollow Articles with Improved Latching and Dispensing Configurations, was filed on October 1986. In less than one year, all other international patents would need to be filed. It was ironic that this patent was later to be at the center of all subsequent law-suits and was to result in the virtual destruction of my business. At the time, I'd had no immediate plans to use the technology; my immediate objectives were only to allow the opportunity to raise more money by dangling the possibility of wider markets under his investors' noses. Neither he nor I had any intention of using this groove in any of our designs. The theory of the idea was very neat and simple and appeared to make use of a tried and tested technology but the bottom line remained that getting it to work in practice would mean some pretty complex, and therefore expensive, engineering: it was one thing to produce a bottle with an interior groove, but quite another to get it to drop out of the mold afterwards. More disturbing still was the fact that if anyone came up with a practical way of doing this, and protected it, I would end up paying royalties to him in order to produce my containers. "Maybe your first invention was accidental," said Jim Deimen, "but you'll soon discover that you have to innovate continuously if you want to maintain your lead. You might be tempted to think to yourself 'That's it. I can afford to relax now and count my royalty money.'. Nothing could be further from the truth, believe me. Look at it this way; the guy who invented the wooden wheel wouldn't be making much dough in the era of steel-walled radials." had been issued an option for Mexico alone but his eyes were set on many more countries.
110
"Everything is negotiable," I said, "except Europe. I'm reserving that market for established companies, if you don't mind." didn't object. He had enough on his plate as it was. He instructed his attorney, Rodney Commons, to go to the Far East in order to investigate the feasibility of the market. One of Mel's immediate objectives was to have all of his molds, designs and promotional materials produced there. This would even extend to manufacturing. "My products are reusable," he said. "I can afford the increased transportation costs and you'd be surprised what those Asians can do for "Are we talking geisha girls or plastic bottles, Mel?" "Plastic bottles." "In that case it's just what 1 want to hear. Any research and development you can do would be more than welcome and if there's anything I can d o for you, you only have to say the word. I'd like our relationship to be a two-way street. We're both training on the job, as know." "Are we still talking plastic bottles now, or geisha girls?" "Plastic bottles, I'm afraid." During that trip to Hong Kong, Taiwan, South Korea and other countries, Rodney Commons spent much of his time in Steve Bernstein's company. Steve owned a fish import business called Pan American but piscatorial matters didn't seem to stop him from inquiring about my containers. He discussed their possible applications with Rodney and they were both so intrigued with their potential that they decided to conduct some joint market-research. It turned into a ten page report that Steve mailed me as soon as he got back to the U.S.. The Bernstein report dealt in detail with the pricing of molds, the production of containers, labels, transportation and other miscellaneous items. I was so impressed by his professionalism that I called Steve up and arranged for a meeting. He and his brother Bruce came to see the latest developments at first hand. Their down to visit coincided with the first production using Mel's new molds. "These containers are certainly a big improvement on the earlier ones that Rodney showed me in the plane," was Steve's verdict. They certainly were a big improvement. If I'd only had those containers a few weeks earlier, the Germans would have surrendered without a fight. Now I was forced to put out a concentrate product of my had been doing the door-to-door with concenown. van den trate companies and had finally located a firm by the name of Carmel's
111
PRIVATE SCREENING
Fragrances which produced a powdered fruit concentrate similar to Kool Aid. "What do you intend to do with Steve, as he juggled with a collapsed half-gallon container. "Just what it says on the label," I said. "Expand 'n' shake." "'Expand' doesn't sound so catchy," said Steve. "It reminds me of the Charles Atlas ads. How about Pop 'n' Shake?" "Even better," I replied. "I'm getting the drink ready for the next beverage show in Dallas in a month's time." "Well, I reckon it's got all the hallmarks of a winner," said Steve. "Look, Bill, as far as I'm concerned you can consider me as a licensee for this application." said. "But there's one hitch. I decided to make this powdered drinks category non-exclusive. I already promised General Food the rights for the same application but if you don't mind not having an exclusive license, I think we can do business." "You mean Kool Aid are interested in putting their powdered mix in the bottle? Jesus, Bill! That's history in the making! These people haven't changed their packaging since dinosaurs ruled the earth. Let me tell you, if they decide to go with you, you're going to be one famous guy." There was no doubt in my mind that Steve and his brother were born entrepreneurs and, if given a chance, would come through with their promises. For thirty thousand dollars a year plus royalties the Pop 'n' Shake application was on its way to becoming the first product to be sold in the mass market. Within four months, it could be found in some of the biggest supermarket chains in the country. As with it had been sheer luck that brought these two people into my life. What happened after that was due to themselves alone. "There's no doubt in my mind," I said, "that this product is going to make millionaires out of the both of you." be "If I can only be the alternative to Kool Aid," said Steve, more than happy with that." I introduced the Bernstein brothers to van den who was now to become their new mentor. They also met the owner of Carmel's Fragrances. Before very long, they were well on their way to being totally independent. It was as I was heading back from Los Angeles after one of these meetings that I decided to call Birgit to warn her of my late arrival. I
112
noticed at once, from the tone of her voice, that something was very wrong. "Is everything okay?" I asked. "Yes...sure. Well, no. Actually it isn't." "Let's have it then." "It's Dr Schwemley." "What's the matter with him?" "He's dead, Bill." "What?" I had been talking to him only a couple of weeks earlier. He had been so full of energy, so brimming with good-humor and confidence. "What happened?" "A car crash. His wife was in it too. She's alive but in a critical condition." "Oh my God!" I was dumfounded. Dr Schwemley was much more than a business associate he had become almost a father-figure to Birgit and me and we had grown to love him dearly. Despite the fact that he had become involved in it more as a hobby than anything else, he was the only one of my partners who had shown any interest in my business and now he had died without ever having seen the project bear fruit, without ever having seen a bottle selling in a store. That would have made him really proud. Giving him that would have meant a lot to me too. Birgit and I were going to miss him and so were most people who had known him. At the funeral that followed, the entire population of Stockton seemed to turn out in mourning. Dr Schwemley had been greatly loved and respected and his death made the headlines in most newspapers in the area. The circumstancesattendant on his death also contributed to that; the young man responsible for the head-on collision committed suicide a few weeks later. It seemed he could no longer live with himself. After the funeral there was a reception at the Schwemley home and it was there that I got to meet Kevin, his son. Kevin was obviously and understandably distraught but he was making a big effort to master his feelings. I was surprised that he still managed to show hospitality to Birgit and me. He even spent a considerable time talking to us about the bottle business. "My father believed in your invention," he said. "I must admit he was the only one in the family that did. It made him happy. Every time he came here with some of your bottles he would show them to every-
113
PRIVATE SCREENING
body and play around with them. What you are doing was important to him." "I know all of that Kevin," I said. "I promise we'll try to live up to his expectations. I only hope that you can take the same kind of interest as he did. Your father told me you're an accountant. One day, when it wouldn't be intrusive or burdensome, I'd like to make use of your services." Unlike many who were present at the funeral, I could not afford the luxury of a long period of mourning. I had to recover from this tragedy as quickly as possible since many things required my attention. But at least Dr Schwemley's death, tragic and wasteful as it was, had one beneficial effect: it brought me closer to my son. Suddenly I received an intimation of mortality. People you respected and people you loved could be cruelly snatched away. It was wise to enjoy their company while they were still there. And yet, in spite of that, I still couldn't seem to reshuffle my priorities entirely. The Dallas '86 was held at the end of October - the same time as the previous year's NSDA show in Anaheim. For some reason best known to themselves, the organizers had seen fit to change the name but apart from that it was still the same international beverage trade-fair. This time CBA shared its two hundred square foot booth Hardman's new company, Interstate Marketing. In fact it was with should have been there; his products were debatable whether kitchenware and really he ought to have exhibited at houseware or camping shows. Nevertheless, I was very pleased with his presence since he also shared the expenses. On my side of the booth I was focussing my attention exclusively on concentrated drinks. I displayed twelve-pack cases containing collapsed half-gallon bottles going under the new name Pop 'n' Shake. Bruce Bernstein was there to help us promote them. Since our line of products was more limited this time, we received less attention than the year before but we were still to receive a great deal of media coverage. More than a few people were surprised to see us still in business. I was one of them. Birgit and I were kept very busy but, now that we had more help at the booth, we had the time to attend some of those exclusive parties in private suites that I had been too tired to attend the year before. For me, however, the most unexpected event of the show was the sudden appearance of Peter Willis.
114
"Well, surprise surprise!" I exclaimed. Peter gave me a look which seemed to reflect a strange mixture of pleasure and embarrassment. "Hi, Bill," he said. "Looks like you're doing okay. I always said that Capri Sun was making a big mistake in terminating their agreement with you. It's a pity you never showed them the bottle you have now." "So you like our Pop 'n' Shake line?" "Beautiful!" He paused, running his fingers across the collapsed bellows of one of the bottles. "Have you licensed this to anyone?" "Sure," I answered. "The Bernstein brothers. They're around here somewhere." "It's okay. You needn't bother finding them." He carefully replaced the bottle in the display. "Have you licensed the liquid concentrates to anyone yet?" "No, they're still available." "You don't say. Well, I may as well be frank with you - I no longer work for Capri Sun. I have a consulting company of my own now." "That's nice." "It's a living. Look, Bill, I'd be very interested in taking over the same license you offered them." "Capri Sun, you mean? Under the same terms?" "Under the same terms." "Oh, tell it not in Gath!" I said, "Publish it not in the streets of Askelon!" "What d'you mean by that?" "How should I know?" Peter Williswas content but Mel Hardman was not a happy man. For a start, it was becoming plain to him that this show was not the place to be. Now he was also seeing his own mold and designs being used by me to license other people. He felt that I was taking advantage of him and, to a certain extent, he was right. On the other hand, I hadn't brought him to Texas at the point of a gun and I was still valuable to him as far as developing other designs was concerned. That, and the fact that he was still interested in acquiring licenses for other countries, persuaded him to keep his feelings to himself. Yet it was clear that he was displeased with the way things were going. requested a license for As soon as we got back to California, all other developing countries and the right to file the 'Hollow Article' patent directly with my attorney at his own expense. I certainly
115
PRIVATE SCREENING
couldn't afford to file for all those countries myself and, to be honest, I had little interest in doing so: it was unlikely that the market opportunity was worth the effort and their legal systems for protecting intellectual property probably left a lot to be desired. Within a few days of my return, I went to Sacramento to see Rodney Commons, Mel's attorney, with a view to signing the international license. himself was out of town and Rodney had already prepared the license which he was to sign in his client's absence. This was by no means unusual but I was certainly surprised to see Rodney and not as his attorney. I took the Commons sign as an agent for liberty of asking him why. "Acquiring this license was my idea," he explained. "I think there are some golden opportunities to be had in the Far East in particular. I'm wearing two hats, you see. isn't just my client - he's also my partner in this venture." "Well," I said. "It's your money. All I care about is that, if any unauthorized product comes from these countries to the U.S., I know where to find you." Rodney turned out to be extremely knowledgeable about patent law. In fact he was to be the one to coordinate all of the international filings with Jeims Deimen. "I've got a great many contacts throughout Asia," he said. "Everywhere from the Middle East toJapan. The possibilitiesare limitless, Bill. Just think of all those petro-dollars for a start! I tell you I can take the next plane to Kuwait and in less than a week there'll be some sheik offering a million dollars a year to sell this technology there, no kidding!" "I hope you're right," I said. "You bet I'm right! Look. Mel's got the whole U.S. market for reusable containers. If you take countries like Taiwan or Hong Kong, you're talking state-of-the-art technology and inexpensive labor. Put the two together and what have you got? Save yourself the trouble tell you. You've got a source of efficient R D and cheap exports to the United States. What could be better?" "It's a good job you're not planning to run for Congress." A few days later, Rodney sent his instructions and a copy of the along with a ten thousand dollar check. Six license to Jeims Asian countries were to be filed immediately for the Hollow Articles patent. This was only a start.
116
With this deal now concluded, it seemed likely that was going to try and tighten the screws on me. was the feeling I had when he called to ask if he could come down and meet me in Stockton. My first impression of the person who came with him was that he might, conceivably, be the sheriff, come to help him confiscate the hundreds of bottles in my garage which he would claim to be his own property. Instead, his companion turned out to be Bob Smith, a man to raise capital for his operations. hired by Bob Smith said that he was working for a company called Wexford Capital in La Jolla. "What do you do exactly?" I asked him. "Well, basically my company raises capital for business deals." intervened at that point. "That's why we're here, Bill. I've asked Bob to help raise money for my U.S. operation and also internationally. Bob's an old navy buddy. We were both in Special Forces and I've done business with him in the past." "Fair enough," I replied. "But I don't quite see how that affects me." waved his hand dismissively. "He just wanted to see what you're like at first hand, that's all. Your reputation and your character might be equally as important to these investors as the product itself." oh!" I thought. "That's all I need!" I tried to make myself look as dependable and businesslike as I could while hoping, at the same time, that they wouldn't inquire too deeply into the details of my personal life. Were Lisa and Andrew in the house? No, thank God - only Birgit. Visiting ex-wives are pretty common, after all. An ex-wife who's your current girlfriend and an exgirlfriend who's the mother of your son are not quite so readily accepted though. Maybe Bob would try to interest some strict Calvinist investment group from Pennsylvania. No, look on the bright side, Touzani; they might be Mormons. It was important that I made a good impression: Wexford was to prepare an offering document and a business plan for these investors and they needed all available background information on the product, its technical merits and the brains behind it. There was nothing for me in any way I could. After all, in this deal but I was happy to assist the more he got, the more, albeit indirectly, I got. I gave them all the information they required, breathed a sigh of relief that they hadn't
117
PRIVATE SCREENING
asked about the wife and kids, and, fortunately for all concerned, they went away satisfied. This meeting happened right in the middle of a period of great activity for Birgit and me. We were caught up in the same sort of rush that we had experienced a year earlier, in the aftermath of the first beverage show, when we had had to mail off hundreds of brochures and samples before the Christmas holidays. This time the same packages were sent to my partners. They must have been impressed with the latest developments not altogether surprising in view of the fact that Mel's bottle was far superior to anything they had previously seen. Wonder of wonders, they asked me to have lunch with them. Over lunch the discussion was led by Dr Thomas who was, from that time on, to remain their spokesman as the late Dr Schwemley had been before. Between them, some of the partners decided that, in view of the latest developments, they might be interested in purchasing their option shares. Not a minute too late, I thought to myself. I was still financially desperate and therefore I agreed to transfer five more shares even though the deadline had already expired. Their sudden interest gave me a certain amount of optimism: if they, who had previously shown so little interest in what CBA was doing, had been sufficiently impressed by Mel's bottle that they now exercised their share-option, it could only bode well for the of the new container. should have no problem in convincing any potential investors. I had seen Bob Smith only a few days earlier and when he called again I immediately assumed that he just wanted further information. "Bill," he began, "I've been giving a lot of thought to your invention and I believe that we could help you as well. I've spoken to my his name is Dennis Lawrence and we'd like you partner in San to come down and discuss the opportunities together." I was surprised, however, when he asked me not to tell Mel about this meeting. I was surprised but I was not particularly shocked. On past experience, it was logical that he saw me as a suitable candidate for investment I had lots of potential to offer and it must have been quite apparent that I was for sale. In case it wasn't as apparent as I thought, I took the trouble of telling him so and accepted to visit their offices in La Jolla. I had no qualms about dealing with Wexford capital. As far as I could see, there would be no conflict of interests between myself and my licensee, Mel's Interstate Marketing. After all, we would be solicit-
118
ing investors for different purposes and different territories. Although Bob had asked me to keep the meeting confidential, I considered that unnecessary would eventually know that he was working for both of us anyway. My concern was really more that might not view the situation in the same way as I. Now that I had some money from my partners, I was quick to order my own sets of molds over a hundred thousand dollars worth. These were exactly the same as Mel's and would naturally make me, the Bernsteins and Peter less dependent on him. A few days later, I flew to San and was picked up from the airport by Bob. He drove me to La Jolla. Wexford Capital's suite of offices was located in a luxurious building in La Jolla Plaza and was, undoubtedly, impressive. I was greeted by two smiling receptionists and led to a conference room. We passed several offices. I caught a glimpse of a flickering computer monitor and heard a printer chattering in the distance. The furniture was new and expensive; the whole building was new, in fact the whole neighbourhood was new. Wexford Capital had obviously just moved in and they had certainly done it in style. After a few minutes, we were joined by Dennis Lawrence, the president of the firm, and Michael Hudson, an associate. Mr Lawrence brought a whole new meaning to the expression 'big in business': he weighed at least three hundred pounds and waddled rather than walked across the brand-new purple carpet to clasp my hand in a boneless handshake. As I returned his greeting, I was hoping that he didn't intend to canvass door-to-door. For one thing, he'd have had considerable difficulty in getting through one. As if he'd read my mind, he said; "Bob will be the one to solicit investors once our business plan has been finalized. Everyone will work under my direct supervision." I'd come all prepared for him. I had copies of all the brochures we'd made, posters, news articles, et cetera, but the documents he was most interested in were the CBA partnership agreement and my exclusive license to them as the inventor. I also gave him copies of my U.S. patent and the newest Hollow Articles patent, recently filed in the U.S. and internationally. Dennis had no interest in this latest patent. He thought of it only as a scheme by Mel Hardman to induce investors to put up money for international markets.
119
PRIVATE SCREENING
"It's quite possible that this patent won't even be issued," he wheezed. "There wasn't even a search done on it to find out if it had a chance." I didn't feel it necessary to elaborate on that subject. "I know Mel Hardman is one of your licensees," continued Lawrence, "but I'm sorry to say that I don't think we can raise capital for him. You see, his U.S. license only deals with Tupperware type products that a lot of people would regard as toys and investors would certainly not take seriously. Secondly, his international license is for poor countries where people will not be able to afford to to pay premium prices for this sort of technology." "Poor Mel," I said to myself. "I hope he has other navy buddies." Nevertheless, I appreciated the fact that Dennis Lawrence was being frank and straightforward with me. We studied the CBA partnership agreement together. It was obvious that the partnership was formed for the U.S. market only but Lawrence was disappointed to discover that I was forbidden from raising money for the company without the approval of my partners. However, since my European patents were correctly filed before the creation of CBA and were available for licensing by me alone and since that same patent had already been issued in the United States, he felt more confident of being able to raise capital for the European operation. "You're probably aware, Bill," said Dennis Lawrence, "that in 1992 the European Community will abolish trade restrictions making it a single market for all and a much more substantial one than here in the U.S.. You also ought to bear in mind that there's a large, rich, expatriate European community in Southern California who would be more than happy to invest back home." The meeting lasted for several hours. By the end of the day I had signed an exclusive agreement with Wexford allowing them to raise two and a half million dollars for the European operation. The business was to be conducted by a new company to be called Collapsible Bottle International (CBI) and the new investors were to take ten percent equity. Were Wexford to be successful in raising this money within the stipulated period, their efforts were to be rewarded with a five percent equity. "With two and a half million dollars to back us up," I said, "this European operation might just be the ideal partner for CBA. It might even save it from going under."
120
"Well, surprise surprise!" I exclaimed. Peter gave me a look which seemed to reflect a strange mixture of pleasure and embarrassment. "Hi, Bill," he said. "Looks like you're doing okay. I always said that Capri Sun was making a big mistake in terminating their agreement with you. It's a pity you never showed them the bottle you have now." "So you like our Pop 'n' Shake line?" "Beautiful!" He paused, running his fingers across the collapsed bellows of one of the bottles. "Have you licensed this to anyone?" "Sure," I answered. "The Bernstein brothers. They're around here somewhere." "It's okay. You needn't bother finding them." He carefully replaced the bottle in the display. "Have you licensed the liquid concentrates to anyone yet?" "No, they're still available." "You don't say. Well, I may as well be frank with you I n o longer work for Capri Sun. I have a consulting company of my own now." "That's nice." "It's a living. Look, Bill, I'd be very interested in taking over the same license you offered them." "Capri Sun, you mean? Under the same terms?" "Under the same terms." "Oh, tell it not in Gath!" I said, "Publish it not in the streets of Askelon!" "What d'you mean by that?" "How should I know?" Peter was was not a happy man. For a start, it was becoming plain to him that this show was not the place to be. Now he was also seeing his own mold and designs being used by me to license other people. He felt that I was taking advantage of him and, to a certain extent, he was right. On the other hand, I hadn't brought him to Texas at the point of a gun and I was still valuable to him as far as developing other designs was concerned. That, and the fact that he was still interested in acquiring licenses for other countries, persuaded him to keep his feelings to himself. Yet it was clear that he was displeased with the way things were going. requested a license for As soon as we got back to California, all other developing countries and the right to file the 'Hollow Article' patent directly with my attorney at his own expense. I certainly
121
PRIVATE SCREENING
couldn't afford to file for all those countries myself and, to be honest, I had little interest in doing so: it was unlikely that the market opportunity was worth the effort and their legal systems for protecting intellectual property probably left a lot to be desired. Within a few days of my return, I went to Sacramento to see Rodney Commons, Mel's attorney, with a view to signing the international license. himself was out of town and Rodney had already prepared the license which he was to sign in his client's absence. This was by no means unusual but I was certainly surprised to see Rodney Commons sign as an agent for and not as his attorney. I took the liberty of asking him why. "Acquiring this license was my idea," he explained. "I think there are some golden opportunities to be had in the Far East in particular. isn't just my client - he's I'm wearing two hats, you see. also my partner in this venture." "Well," I said. "It's your money. All I care about is that, if any unauthorized product comes from these countries to the U.S., I know where to find you." Rodney turned out to be extremely knowledgeable about patent law. In fact he was to be the one to coordinate all of the international filings with Jeims Deimen. "I've got a great many contacts throughout Asia," he said. "Everywhere from the Middle East to Japan. The possibilities are limitless, Bill. Just think of all those petro-dollars for a start! I tell you I can take the next plane to Kuwait and in less than a week there'll be some sheik offering a million dollars a year to sell this technology there, no kidding!" "I hope you're right," I said. "You bet I'm right! Look. Mel's got the whole U.S. market for reusable containers. If you take countries like Taiwan or Hong Kong, you're talking state-of-the-art technology and inexpensive labor. Put the two together and what have you got? Save yourself the trouble tell you. You've got a source of efficient R D and cheap exports to the United States. What could be better?" "It's a good job you're not planning to run for Congress." A few days later, Rodney sent his instructions and a copy of the license to Jeims along with a ten thousand dollar check. Six Asian countries were to be filed immediately for the Hollow Articles patent. This was only a start.
122
With this deal now concluded, it seemed likely that Mel Harman was going to try and tighten the screws on me. That was the feeling I had when he called to ask if he could come down and meet me in Stockton. My first impression of the person who came with him was that he might, conceivably, be the sheriff, come to help him confiscate the hundreds of bottles in my garage which he would claim to be his own property. Instead, his companion turned out to be Bob Smith, a man hired by to raise capital for his operations. Bob Smith said that he was working for a company called Wexford Capital in La Jolla. "What do you do exactly?" I asked him. "Well, basically my company raises capital for business deals." intervened at that point. "That's why we're here, Bill. I've asked Bob to help raise money for my U.S. operation and also internationally. Bob's an old navy buddy. We were both in Special Forces and I've done business with him in the past." "Fair enough," I replied. "But I don't quite see how that affects me." waved his hand dismissively. "He just wanted to see what you're like at first hand, that's all. Your reputation and your character might be equally as important to these investors as the product itself." "Uh oh!" I thought. "That's all I need!" I tried to make myself look as dependable and businesslike as I could while hoping, at the same time, that they wouldn't inquire too deeply into the details of my personal life. Were Lisa and Andrew in the house? No, thank God only Birgit. Visiting ex-wives are pretty common, after all. An ex-wife who's your current girlfriend and an exgirlfriend who's the mother of your son are not quite so readily accepted though. Maybe Bob would try to interest some strict Calvinist investment group from Pennsylvania. No, look on the bright side, Touzani; they might be Mormons. It was important that I made a good impression: Wexford was to prepare an offering document and a business plan for these investors and they needed all available background information on the product, its technical merits and the brains behind it. There was nothing for me in this deal but I was happy to assist in any way I could. After all, the more he got, the more, albeit indirectly, I got. I gave them all the information they required, breathed a sigh of relief that they hadn't
123
PRIVATE SCREENING
Lisa and Birgit walked in. I was kneeling on the floor, bent double with my head on the carpet. "Are you okay, Bill?" said Birgit, rushing up to me. "What's wrong?" The only reply I could give right then was a pitiful groan. Somewhere, in the far distance, I could hear a strained, tinny voice shouting to me. The telephone receiver was dangling next to my head. In agony, I levered myself upright and put it to my ear. "Bill!" "Yes, Dr Thomas." "Bill, I want you to get to the St Joseph Hospital immediately. meet you there. Can someone take you or do you want me to call you an ambulance?" "It's okay," I muttered. "I can make it." "Are you sure?" "Yes." "Okay, see you there." I was practically carried to the car and Birgit drove us straight to the hospital. As soon as we entered the emergency department, I asked for Dr Thomas. He arrived within a matter of minutes and immediately had me wheeled along to an examination room. Another doctor and a nurse came in. As soon as Dr Thomas placed his fingers gently on my abdomen, sparks flashed before my eyes and a ball of fire raced through my body and turned to a strangled scream when it hit my mouth. "We got a theater free?" Dr Thomas asked the other doctor. "Sure." "Then get an an anesthetist down there right away. We've got an emergency appendectomy on our hands. I want this patient through pre- op within five minutes at most. Okay?" "Okay." I was wheeled straight out the examination room and straight into the operating theater. Before you could say Marcus Welby, I had been undressed, shaved and injected. Dr Thomas hurried in wearing an operating gown and mask. "Isn't this all a bit fast?" I asked him, just before the anesthetist got to work on me. "Your appendix is on the point of bursting," he replied. "We haven't a second to lose."
124
I opened my eyes to find Birgit, Lisa and Andrew sitting at my bedside. It was the following morning. We were just discussing what a close call it had been when Dr Thomas joined us. I introduced him to my family. "Dr Thomas, this is Birgit she's my ex-wife. This is Andrew, my son, and this is his mother, Lisa." They all shook hands politely. After a few minutes, Lisa and Birgit started chatting together and Dr Thomas took advantage of the diversion to lean over my bed and look me in the eye. "I'm not surprised you had acute appendicitis," he murmured, glancing from me to where Lisa and Birgit were talking. "If I were you I'd take things easier in future." "Thanks for the advice, Doc," I replied. "And thanks for the good work. I'm glad I decided to come here last night instead of this morning." "Forget it," said Dr Thomas. "And the only way you'd have come here this morning would have been in a body-bag. Your appendix was in the process of bursting. If that had happened, peritonitis would have set in and there's a pretty good chance you'd never have made it." I had known very little about Dr Thomas before this and it was by the purest chance that I'd happened to have his telephone number. Perhaps the greatest irony of all was that he saved my life on this occasion only to bury me two years later. My recovery was to be long and painful, yet the day after my operation the nurses were already forcing me to walk. "Don't you think this is a bit early?" I asked one of them. "It's routine procedure," she replied. "It may be routine," I said, "but it hurts like hell." I gave it another shot but as soon as my foot touched the floor, an indescribable pain rocketed through me. My foot started to shake and my whole right leg turned to marshmallow. "The hell with this!" I shouted, and slumped back on the bed. "Come on, Mr Touzani," crooned the nurse. "You can do it." "Maybe I can do it but whether I want to is another matter," I growled. "Are you sure you're giving me the right pain-killers? They don't seem to be doing much good." "Are you trying to tell me my job?" retorted the nurse. "Of course they're the right pain-killers. And, believe it or not, this is good for you."
125
PRIVATE SCREENING
Her assurances were no consolation. When Lisa came to visit me after work I explained the situation to her. She examined my progresschart and then went to talk to the nurses. "Well?" I said, when she returned. "You seem to be on the correct medication. The dosage is right too." "So how come I'm still in pain?" "You're probably not getting enough of it." "I thought you said the dosage was right." "It is. At least it ought to be if you're getting what it says on your That's the big question though. Sometimes part of a dose tends to go astray." "Hey, come on! We're talking about a drug! It doesn't find its own way here a nurse brings it!" "Exactly." "YOU mean...?" "Most patients wouldn't miss a few milligrams here and there." "This one does!" "I can't ask for the dose to be increased. It probably wouldn't make any difference anyway except to the amount the nurse takes." "So you mean I'm being driven crazy with the pain while some flaky nurse is getting her rocks off behind my medication?" "'Getting her rocks off' might be an overstatement but es...I guess it amounts to that." "Great! And there's nothing you can do?" "Not really. It's kind of difficult to prove anything unless you catch her in the act. In the meantime, what do you say I give you a blanketbath?" "Sounds okay to me. Do I have to provide my own blankets?" It was certainly a lot more pleasant to be cleaned up by Lisa than by one of the regular nurses. Birgit, however, seemed more uncomfortable than I particularly as she watched Lisa giving my private parts their spring clean. "You get pretty used to this," Lisa said to her as she busied herself with the towel. "A nurse has to do this kind of thing to strangers too. It's all part of the job." Lisa's consideration and diplomacy didn't seem to make Birgit feel much better. The most that she could offer was comfort, company and support. I appreciated all of that very much but it was clear that Birgit herself felt useless and left-out. Andrew was there every day; Lisa was always attentive; Birgit felt increasingly isolated. It wasn't long
126
before the mounting tension communicated itself to the rest of the ward. "Is that his wife?"one nurse would ask. "No, that's his ex-wife and his girlfriend," her colleague would answer. "The other woman is an ex-girlfriend and the mother of his son. Or the other way around - I forget which." I spent several days in the hospital before I was home. It was long enough for me to work up the courage to ask Birgit if she to work out of Wexford Capital's would like to go down to San offices and to prepare the ground for me to go down there. I had expected her to protest such a hasty move. Instead she agreed with no questions asked: we all needed some breathing space in more ways that one.
127
8 . ANDREW
January 1st 1987 saw the signing of my first multimillion-dollar contract. To be more exact, the contract concerned ten million dollars spread over the duration of my U.S. patent and it allowed Peter to secure the exclusive rights to liquid concentrates for the American market. "You're a tough negotiator, Bill" said Peter. "This agreement goes way beyond what you wanted from Capri Sun six months ago and do my best, of they're an established, international company. course, but I must have your word that the royalty payments are up for renegotiation any time we think it necessary." "That's fine by me," I replied. "Listen, Peter, I'm perfectly aware that this container has no proven track-record. No one can say for sure the right amount of royalties that it requires." To this day, I still don't understand why I was so tough with Peter. Maybe I hadn't forgiven him for not doing more to convince the Germans to stick it out longer: their decision to terminate our agreement had almost thrown me onto the street. Peter, however, was the only one of my customers who had any experience in the beverage industry. His strategy was to seek out venture capital in return for a controlling interest. This ultimately resulted in his setting up the Sundale Beverages Corporation. It opened for business out of an office-building in Belmont, California, its national headquarters being one small room with shared secretarial services. The Bernstein Brothers relied on friends and acquaintances to raise the funds they needed. They began in an even more modest way than Peter; working out of their house and subscribing to a telephone answering service. Mel Hardman put his faith in the same kind of people - Church groups, mostly and on the promises of his new partner and lawyer, Rodney Commons.
128
Although it was disappointing that I had not secured a license with a major company, I was happy to be doing business with individuals who had the same entrepreneurial spirit as myself and who were willing to squeeze out any opportunity that might have been overlooked by the big boys. It was going to be a challenge to see if we could all work together and not against each other. On the face of it, this should was to produce not have posed too great a problem. reusable containers and market them at premium prices while Peter and the Bernsteins were to deal in disposable containers for the 'belly-wash' drinks market for them it was to be a question of high volume production and low profit-margins. Since Peter's product utilized liquid concentrate and the Bernsteins' used powder, they would not be in direct competition with each other but there would still be a certain degree of overlap. The thorniest problem, however, would be persuading the general public to dispose of the container after use: Hardman's business. their reusing it would inevitably affect As for myself, it was crucial that I monitored all production and established efficient quality control in order to convey the right image to other industries. This was a task which was to keep me almost exclusively in Los Angeles. Lately, I had been spending my nights at home using his guest room on a full-time basis. Aurora, his wife, and their daughter Anna had become a second family. Nevertheless, I was far from happy; at a and his Interstate Marketing company had invested in time when sufficient molds to produce a million bottles a month and I had himself had just ordered enough molds to produce three million, gotten out of the business of manufacturing. "It's a great pity," I said to him over dinner one evening. "This is the moment you've been waiting for for the past eighteen months and now that you finally stand to make some money out of this bottle you're out of the business altogether." Aurora cut me off. "He's too good to people. He's always overconfident. I'm surprised we still have a house to live in." smiled ruefully. "I must admit that what I did for you I wouldn't have done for anybody else. Mind you, I'd do it again just to see those execs from Pepsi and Coke standing in line to receive our bottles. That alone was worth my time." "Wasn't that something?" I chuckled.
129
PRIVATE SCREENING
"Wasn't it just! It's only a shame my partner didn't feel the same way about it." "He gave you a hard time, right?" say he did! That's what did it for me in the end; the friction was just too much. I can't say I really blame him I was just too obsessed with the bottle and neglected the rest of the business. But don't blame yourself: bounce back." "You got any plans?" " 11 buy a newer machine and take care of some of your customers' 1' production. It'll probably mean getting a second mortgage on this place though." "There goes the house." My licensees were now producing containers in several factories in Los Angeles, recommended by Al, and were stocking them prior to the big roll-out. Both and I were supervising production. The Bernsteins were working with Carmel's Fragrances and were busy negotiating packaging costs for Pop Shake. Peter Willis was doing the same thing with some companies in the Bay Area for Burple and was getting ready for a regional test in the Chicago area. Mel Hardman had the easiest job of them all: his products were to go straight from a plastics factory to a supermarket shelf under the brand-name of Shrinkables. I remember experiencing an incredible feeling of satisfaction and suspense at this time as I waited for the day when the first of these products would go on sale and people would pay money for something I had created. It was all certainly a lot more satisfying than putting everything in the hands of a major corporation. These sentiments were shared by my licensees. We were all gambling our careers and our security on achieving the American Dream. It was still possible even in this day and age, wasn't it? All that was necessary was the ingenuity, the know-how and, most of all, hard work. We all felt a sense of pride that we were following a path previously taken by the likes of Thomas son and Henry Ford and that, in our way, we were pioneers writing our chapter in the pages of American commercial history. This new technology presented some major challenges however most importantly, how to convey to the consumer that these containers could pop, burp or shrink. Where would my licensees find the advertising budget necessary to communicate those ideas? Even sticking a label on our bottle was fraught with difficulties; it interfered with its expandability.
130
It was at this moment that I received a call from Issie Kroll. It brought the solution to all our problems. Issie Kroll had been so persistent in his efforts to talk to me that Birgit had finally told him to call me directly. He had somehow managed to acquire samples of the collapsible bottles and he wanted his company to sell them. The company in question J K Marketing specialized in direct response marketing and was owned by Issie Kroll and his partner Michael Sander. Kroll's concept was simple: "You give us the containers; we show them on television; people order them through a toll-free 800 number and you get your money a week later." "Boy," I said to myself. "When they say direct response, they really mean it." I had seen many products advertised on TV that you could order and charge to a credit-card everything from cheap kitchen gadgets to Time-Life publications. I had even ordered some records myself at one time. I had often wondered how they could afford to advertise in this way as their TV spots always seemed at least twice as long as those of other advertisers and must have been ruinously expensive. But their longer ads seemed perfect for explaining the use and advantages of the collapsible bottle. It was during my conversation with Issie that I found out that TV networks such as CNN offered reduced rates in return for a percentage of the income deriving from the advertising. "Your product is so fresh and new," said Issie, "that direct response advertising would be the best possible way of promoting it. Plus it would give you the exposure you need to roll it out at retail." As much as I was fascinated by what he had to tell me, I knew I couldn't accommodate him. I m sorry," I said. "I've given the exclusive rights to sell empty containers to a company called Interstate Marketing. You can ask for and tell him I referred you." I was sure that would love proposition. It would relieve him of considerable advertising costs, would educate the public at large on the many uses of the collapsible bottle and he would have no problem in introducing the product at the retail level. I also thought that if concluded an advantageous deal with J K, he might well forgive me for taking away his investment firm. Now I knew for certain that when his deal with Wexford fell through, he had blamed it all on me. I had, he said, gone behind his back and offered them a better proposition. I hoped he would appreciate that, by putting him in touch with Issie Kroll, I was offering him a great oppor-
131
PRIVATE SCREENING
tunity. Maybe he would even pay his ten thousand dollar royalty fee which, by then, had been overdue for several weeks. J K Marketing were of great interest to me. Their marketing strategy seemed ideal for my licensees. Peter was the first to welcome it. "If they show the product on CNN," he said, "my prospective investors will be crawling all over me." By now, Dennis Lawrence had located an apartment for Birgit. One weekend she and I loaded her belongings into our cargo van and headed south towards San Dennis had found her a duplex apartment in a new block within a five minute walk of his offices. Since the University of California's San campus was nearby, her new home was located in an area with a large student population. Birgit had brought with her the complete files of CBA and quickly set herself up in her own private office in Dennis' suite. It was the first time that either of us had actually worked in a purpose-built office and, at first, she regretted that she was only to be there on a temporary basis and could be asked to move out at any time. Now, except for the odd phone call, practically all my business was being conducted in either Los Angeles, where Al's consulting services where Birgit dealt with everything were still needed, or in San else. Now that it looked as though I finally had some opportunity to relax a bit more, I started to appreciate how exhausting this whole business had been and to enjoy some relative degree of freedom. I was relieved that I'd finally been able to pass the torch to other people but a little disappointed that I still hadn't made my first sodapop bottle. Maybe the industry simply didn't care what happened to their bottles after they'd been purchased. But what if I made it difficult for them to sell their bottles in the first place until the consumer was satisfied with the purity of the contents? After all, a significant amount of soda-pop was certainly flat when the consumer first opened it. Maybe here there was a way to make my product indispensable. It was pretty obvious that the only feature of a container that could radically affect the quality of its contents was the closure. At didn't take the project all that seriously and it was purely my toying with the idea of a bellows inserted inside the bottle that led me to my breakthrough. The principle at which I arrived was extremely simple; pressure exerted by the carbon dioxide in the drink would extend the bellows; a lack of carbonation would either cause it to collapse or keep
132
it in its original relaxed state. The consumer would only have to glance at the bellows to know if the product was in good condition or not. The implications of this invention extended far beyond gauging freshness however. Recently, the international press had been full of cases where food products had been deliberately adulterated by terrorists, extortionists or plain homicidal maniacs. Products had been found contaminated with such terrifying or lethal additives as razor-blades, ground glass, rat-poison or cyanide. The fact that just about anyone could walk into a supermarket and do this within a few minutes had geographically sent tremors of fear through the populations of distant countries as Japan, England and the United States. The food industry had been thrown into a state of panic and millions of dollars had been wasted by withdrawing products from the shelves and repackaging them hastily and, it has to be said, not always very effectively. Further to the question of criminal activity was the age-old problem of bacterial contamination: a hundred deaths a year due to salmonella poisoning may be a demographic drop in the ocean but it still remains a hundred deaths too many. I checked out the local supermarkets. Sure enough, the only closures that seemed to be in evidence were the metal caps on baby food jars that gave an audible 'pop' when released. But what if the mother was hard of hearing? What if grandma was doing a spot of babysitting? Baby food closures had been around for a long time but the product had still been contaminated. And what of shrink-sealing in plastic? It certainly looked effective enough but it was no proof against a maniac with a hypodermic syringe. Not only would an effective closure teach Coke and Pepsi a deserved lesson, far more importantly it would save lives. The question now remained of how to adapt this bellows design to other products. I had dealt enough with the food industry by now to know that jam is poured hot into the jar before an air-tight lid is fitted. As the jam cools, a vacuum forms under the lid and draws it down, sealing off the product from the atmosphere outside. If the cap is made of metal, it will pop back to its original position when released, producing a sound. As with jam, so with baby food. A plastic cap, of course, will never perform in the same way. What if I inserted a bellows or a half-bellows in the container? The suction would compress the bellows and any lack of pressure would cause it to be released. The consumer would be able to check the product at a glance and manufacturers would no longer be restricted to metal lids.
133
PRIVATE SCREENING
A few days later I talked to Jeims Deimen. He had already received several preliminary sketches and brief explanations but I was totally unprepared for his first words. "I just had my first heart-attack, Bill," he said. "Jesus!" "It's nothing to worry about unduly. The doctors called it a warning. They said it was probably brought on by overwork. I've been told to slow down if I want to see my grandchildren." "I'm sorry to hear it, Jim," I said. "Does this mean you'll be retiring from the business?" "No. Not for a while yet at any rate. Just taking it a bit easier, that's all. Listen, as much as I like filing the Hollow Articles patents for your I have to say it's a full-time job. Are you sure licensee you want to go with closures now?" you." "Not if it's going to "I won't let it. All the same, I have to know." "Well first tell me what you think of my ideas." "In my opinion, if the Patent Office allows you all of these developments it would be the most important tamperproof technology ever created. Using a pressure-loaded bellows to monitor interference with the product is a very broad design. Furthermore, it's a visual indication that would be hard for most consumers to miss and the whole question of tamper monitoring is a very big concern to industry and consumer alike at the moment." "That's what I thought," I said. "Well you were right. The statistics are alarming to say the least. There've been thousands of cases reported this year, costing the industry billions of dollars in recalls not to mention in damaged reputations. More important than that; people are dying. This invention of yours is a potential life-saver. say this if this patent gets allowed, personally submit your name to our professional organization as best inventor of the year." "Is that a promise?" "I've been in this business for eighteen years. I work for some very large companies and I can assure you that you have proved to be an inventor of genius."
With Birgit gone, the house in was starting to look very empty and I could no longer bear to spend a night there by myself. I would usually either arrange for Lisa to be with me or I would go up to Sacramento and stay with her. Naturally, the more time we spent
134
together, the closer we became. To outsiders we must have looked like the perfect happy family and even I started to look at us that way. Lisa had changed too; suddenly she began to take an interest in my work. It seemed that she had finally managed to get over her fear that anyone involved in business must necessarily neglect his home life and there were no longer any quarrels on that subject. Birgit had made me rethink my plans about living in the San area or at least she had made me postpone them to some later date - and now that my home was no longer the business headquarters of CBA, Lisa and I decided to take a house together in Sacramento. It was a bigger place than the one I had rented in and now there was a garden large enough for Andrew to play in. Gradually, Lisa's interest in my business activities took on a more practical aspect. What had begun as gentle inquiries as to how things had gone on a particular day soon led to her taking over some of the jobs that Birgit had once carried out back in Stockton. Our relationship was going so well and she had made herself so indispensable that I finally asked her not to return to her job. She was more than happy to comply. Andrew was thrilled with this new arrangement - he was now able to crawl around inside and outside and soon became our unofficial telephone operator. He had become an essential part of my life and as much as he depended on me, I depended even more on him. He not only took an active, though not particularly efficient part in the dayto-day running of the business, he also shared in the family obsession. Collapsible bottles were toys for him. He liked the sounds they made when they were compressed; he soon decided which colors were his favorites and he could collapse any container up to a half-gallon size with a single thrust. Birgit had not been in San more than a few weeks before she started calling me up and complaining about Dennis Lawrence's attitude. At first I was too busy to listen to the details. "Listen, Birgit," I said. "You don't have to take any bull from him. Whenever you like, you can pack all your files and move them back to your apartment. I should remind you, though, that he represents two and a half million dollars. With that kind of money you could have your own office and a brand new car. You could even be our representative in Germany. Hang on in there." However, it soon got to the point where she could hardly wait for me to come down to San and keep her company. In my opinion
135
PRIVATE SCREENING
this defeated the object of her going there but, since I had to spend so much time in Los Angeles anyway, it was the most convenient place to be and finally I even ended up having my own room in her apartment. Birgit had some incredible stories about Wexford Capital. According to Mr Brown, Dennis Lawrence's partner, Dennis was a born loser. He had apparently defrauded many of their customers; he had been the subject of several law-suits and even more alarmingly, Wexford had very little income and could shut down at any moment. "The only money they've received lately," she said, "is the money you've sent them. And you can forget about that European offering that Dennis is putting together the man that would be soliciting money from the investors is Bob Smith himself." "What's wrong with that?" I asked. "That was the original understanding." "For your information, Bob Smith is not an employee of the company. He never has been. He's a freelancer who recently came under indictment for fraud and violation of the Securities and Exchange Commission rules." "You must be kidding. How do you know all this?" "For God's sake, Bill! How can you hide things like that? We have FBI agents stopping by every week. It seems he was part of a big investment scam here in San It involved the mayor and subsequently cost him his job." I was frozen in my chair. I liked Bob. I had met him a couple more times and, based on what had told me, I had never had reason to question his integrity. Now it appeared that I had been betrayed by both him and Dennis. Dennis' promises about the two and a half million dollars for Europe suddenly seemed no more than an elaborate and finely constructed lie. According to Birgit, the secretaries weren't being payed and were planning to leave. The offices themselves were rent-free during the first year as part of the agreement for a five year lease. Dennis' two luxury cars were about to be repossessed by the leasing company and there were rumors that his landlord was going to throw him out of his 'modest' one million dollar home for of rent. for a It struck me as strange that Birgit had only been in San fewweeks and already she seemed to know all there was to know about Wexford. I was still not sure whether she was being completely truthful. In fact it might be more accurate to say that I still thought she was making everything up because she had taken a violent dislike to Dennis Lawrence. On the other hand, I failed to see why she should tell me
136
lies. If Wexford was only a scam outfit, as she seemed to believe, we could certainly kiss goodbye to our two and a half million dollars. But we could always console ourselves with the idea that what we'd never had we'd never miss. What made Birgit's stories particularly hard to swallow was the fact that my own perception of Dennis Lawrence's personality and trustwas entirely different to hers. In my dealings with him, both over the phone and face to face, he had always come across as hard on the someone who had my interests at heart and was package that we had agreed together. In fact, if the worst came to the worst and Wexford Capital did fold, it was not inconceivable that I might offer him a job directly for me. This situation with Wexford was in no way affecting the day-today running of CBA but my agreement for the CBI offering was expiring in a few weeks only and I had no intention of renewing it.
J K Marketing were beginning to interest me greatly. I could see how they might help all of my customers and the collapsible bottle he was progressbusiness as a whole. I kept asking ing with them but, having failed to see any agreement reached, I finally insisted on holding a meeting with him and J & K to try to iron out any problems. The meeting was in early March in the lobby of the Red Lion Hotel in Sacramento. Issie Kroll and Michael Sanders were both there; so were his lawyer and partner Rodney Commons, Dennis Lawrence and myself. Over the preceding months, I had tried to introduce Dennis to aspects of the business as I felt it would improve his chances of negotiating the European package, added to which, his larger-than-life physical presence would make me look a bit less of a oneman operation. the beginning of the meeting, that Mel It was quite clear, had a opinion of direct response advertising. "They're low cost fill-ins," he said. "The TV companies give them the late night slots that nobody else wants." "That's not true,"protested Issie Kroll. "What do you mean it's not true," said Mel. "Are you trying to tell me that the people who up and the Late Show along with a cans of Budweiser and a of peanuts are interested in camping equipment and storage jars for the kitchen? The only time half of them go anywhere near the kitchen is to get themselves another beer cvhile your ads are on."
137
PRIVATE SCREENING
"I think you're doing a grave disservice to people who watch the Late Show," said Issie. "Besides, all of that was true once but it's just no longer the case. It's become big business now. We even put out these ads in prime time." "Listen, Mel," I interjected. "What harm can it do you?" "It's the wrong strategy," he replied. "The hell it is!" I snapped. "It's the most cost-effective advertising around right now. And I know for a fact that you've stock-piled several thousand bottles over the last six months and you haven't made a single god-damned sale! I wouldn't go so far as to say that the bottles will sell themselves but I really can't see what the problem is." shrugged. I could sense that whatever was on his mind was something he would prefer not to discuss in front of Issie and Michael. I made my excuses to the others and asked to accompany me to a secluded area of the lobby. "Okay, Mel," I began. "It's the license, isn't it?" "What makes you think that?" "Well, I haven't had your royalty payment yet so I guess something must be wrong. Look, I don't know what financial difficulties you have right now if indeed you have any and maybe you're holding some sort of grudge against me about the Wexford business but whatever the reason is, I should remind you that we do have a licensing agreement and by the terms of that agreement your license is forfeit if you fail to meet the royalty payments. That's the bottom line, Mel." "I know it," he said. "The licensing agreement is the problem though not in the way you imagine. Let me be frank, Bill. I am willing to cooperate with J K Marketing but on condition that you and I renegotiate our license for the United States and internationally and that you design a new bellows section for one of my molds to test out the practicality of the U-shaped hinge." I had known for some time that had been having difficulties getting investors for his business. The problem, according to them, was that his U.S. license was not drafted properly. It was only a two page document and, though we had praised it at the time for its lack of what most people call obscure legalese and lawyers call precision, it was this same lack that was now causing the problems. "Rodney's good people in all other respects," said Mel, "but I wouldn't call him a very competent lawyer. The new license must be drafted by someone else." "Okay, Mel," I replied. "I don't think that should prove too much of a problem."
138
A few days later I talked to Jeims Deimen. He had already received several preliminary sketches and brief explanations but I was totally unprepared for his first words. "I just had my first heart-attack, Bill," he said.
"It's nothing to worry about unduly. The doctors called it a warning. They said it was probably brought on by overwork. I've been told to slow down if I want to see my grandchildren." "I'm sorry to hear it, Jim," I said. "Does this mean you'll be retiring from the business?" "No. Not for a while yet at any rate. Just taking it a bit easier, that's all. Listen, as much as I like filing the Hollow Articles patents for your licensee I have to say it's a full-time job. Are you sure you want to go with closures now?" "Not if it's going to kill you.'' "I won't let it. All the same, I have to know." "Well first tell me what you think of my ideas." "In my opinion, if the Patent Office allows you all of these developments it would be the most important tamperproof technology ever created. Using a pressure-loaded bellows to monitor interference with the product is a very broad design. Furthermore,it's a visual indication that would be hard for most consumers to miss and the whole question of tamper monitoring is a very big concern to industry and consumer alike at the moment." "That's what I thought," I said. "Well you were right. The statistics are alarming to say the least. There've been thousands of cases reported this year, costing the industry billions of dollars in recalls not to mention in damaged reputations. More important than that; people are dying. This invention of yours is a potential life-saver. say this if this patent gets allowed, 111 personally submit your name to our professional organization as ' best inventor of the year." "Is that a promise?" "I've been in this business for eighteen years. I work for some very large companies and I can assure you that you have proved to be an inventor of genius." With Birgit gone, the house in was starting to look very empty and I could no longer bear to spend a night there by myself. I would usually either arrange for Lisa to be with me or I would go up to Sacramento and stay with her. Naturally, the more time we spent
139
PRIVATE SCREENING
"I didn't know Bison employed people like that," said Tim. "They looked more like CIA operatives." "Or Mafia torpedoes," laughed Scott. "I was waiting for them to make us an offer we couldn't refuse." It was at this moment that the man in the work-clothes interrupted them. "I'm from Bison," he announced. "You got a mold for me?" At once, Scott and Tim called me in Sacramento and told me what had happened. "The mold's been heisted," said Scott. "At least we're pretty sure it has. Do you have anything to do with two guys in a BMW - one black, one white?" "No," I replied. "Then it's definitely been heisted," he said. "We've got the guy from Bison here now. We phoned the plant and they certainly haven't received your mold." In a panic, I called Dennis Lawrence and asked him if he knew anything about the mystery. "It sounds like a classic case of industrial espionage to me," he wheezed. "You'll have to inform the authorities. see what I can do for you, though. I know some people in the FBI who might be able to help." Having been responsible for the mold, Scott and Tim immediately phoned the County Sheriff and reported the theft. They also called me back and told me that they were afraid to do any further work for me. They had, they said, invested millions of dollars in new equipment and, in view of the company I seemed to be keeping, doing any further business with me seemed like a risky proposition. They requested that once they had made of copy of the lost mold and delivered it to me at their own expense - our business relationship be ended. A it turned out, by the time that they had reproduced the mold, s they were no longer quite so anxious and, as further lucrative orders were coming in, we continued to work together. All the same, they took the precaution of installing expensive security and surveillance systems to prevent further thefts. However, the whole episode was beginning to give me second thoughts about the Hollow Articles patent. I was beginning to think that, since the theft had clearly been well organized, it was possible that the thing was considerably more valuable than I had imagined. Dennis himself appeared to be coming to the same conclusion and as he was finally wrapping up his European offering and business-plan
140
package he wondered whether he should have mentioned the existence of this patent and incorporated the new technology. Our doubts became reality when we saw the products from that mold and how that particular design extended the variety of plastics we could use. I was having dinner with family, discussing the unbelievable events of the day, when came out with something that took me very much by surprise. "You don't think Dennis might be behind this, do you? I never really trusted that guy." I was silent. Who else could have known exactly when that mold was finished and ready for testing? Who would have had most to gain by having the latest technology in his possession? After all, I hadn't denied it to anyone who was properly licensed. On the other hand, what would Dennis gain by it and why should Wexford capital want my mold? The only agreement I had with them was regarding Europe. seemed to have read my thoughts. "He could be planning to get control of the European market and get rid of you." It seemed a credible scenario. "Maybe you're right," I said. "Maybe he'll claim that I couldn't be general partner of CBI and CBA at the same time. Chances are, the limited partners would then allow him to manage the European operation. If I denied him my assistance, he would already have the latest technology available to him." We sat around the dinner-table speculating about this matter for quite some time. One thing was certain however; our little family was not quite so innocent and wholesome as I had thought. Although I had sometimes thought that Dennis Lawrence might make a useful ally, I had never seriously considered him as part of the business in any shape or form. He had told me on several occasions that Wexford Capital was his baby and that he was doing well. His interest in my business had only been to the extent of accumulating the information needed for his European business offering and on the commission that his company stood to collect should he be successful. Of course all of this did give him an insider's view of everything I was up to. He would certainly be in a perfect position to swindle me out of my European operation and who knows perhaps even my American one too. Finally, however, I had absolutely no proof of his involvement in the theft of the mold and, if you spend long enough looking for motives, nobody is above suspicion.
141
PRIVATE SCREENING
I was a few weeks later in Dennis Lawrence's office in San Dennis leaned back in his chair, folded his hands across his broad stomach and regarded me with a satisfied expression. "Well, you've kept your bargain with Mel," he said. "This new design ought to have proved the validity of the claims in his tional patents and they should have proved to his investors that their money is not being wasted. I bet you he'll find another reason not to pay his royalty though." Dennis didn't exactly seem depressed by the idea. "You really want him to default on his royalty and have me terminate his license, don't you?" I said. "Sure I do. Don't you? Think of all the money you'll make from J K Marketing once this bozo is out of the way." But I was not convinced. For better or worse, had saved my business and I was determined to be patient with him. Dennis and 1 were actively involved with Mel's new attorney in the drafting of a new international and U.S. license but was continuing to drag his feet over the whole business. Two royalty payments had still not been made. He blamed this on the time needed to draft the was complaining that had not licenses. In addition, Issie done anything since our meeting of a few weeks earlier. If, by early summer, the product was not with him and ready to roll, that year's would be unable to do anything until season would be missed and the following year. I was furious. didn't seem to care about the timing of the direct response campaign. He didn't seem to care less about J K Marketing at all. His continued defiance finally forced me to make a different kid of arrangement. "Why don't you license J K for your Hollow Articles patent," suggested Dennis. "You haven't yet licensed it to CBA and you wouldn't license to Mel. be in breach of "I guess I could do that," I replied. "But I don't yet know if this patent will ever be granted. What happens if it's declined. We'd be sued for breach of Mel's exclusive license." "I don't see that as a problem," said Dennis. "Even if it were the has already breached his license case the courts would understand. by not paying you royalties. We can't afford to wait a whole year to meet the next direct response selling-peak; we might just lose J K altogether." This was certainly a risk that neither I nor my licensees could afford and Dennis Lawrence was more than willing to do the dirty
142
work for me. He lost no time in drafting up a termination notice to Mel, effective May 1st 1987, and sending it to him. He even pre-dated it several weeks in advance to make it conform with our contract. Mel, however, did not feel threatened. Instead of taking our notice seriously and resolving the issue, he decided to take the matter through the courts and buy himself more time. I felt sad that relations between and myself had come to this. I had always liked him and he had always been truthful and honest with me. I couldn't even pin down what his motivation was: he had a large stock of merchandise that he had been sitting on for several months; he'd had several opportunities to market his products but all he seemed to be doing was trying to track down some big investors who would hand him millions of dollars in return for a fat contract and a pile of international patents. If I had been an investor, I would have been much more impressed if he'd told me how many bottles he had sold to date. If only, at the very least, he had paid his royalty fees over the preceding six months a mere twenty thousand dollars! Birgit shared my emotions but she had her own to deal with. She could stand Dennis no longer and was preparing to leave Wexford. She wrote me a letter to that effect in which she said that she couldn't understand how I continued to trust Dennis after all she had said about his activities and that he was going to lead me to destruction and she did not want to be there to see it. Over the past few months Birgit and I had not been as emotionally tied to each other as we had previously been; our relationship was based more around business. She wasn't even telling me about her personal life or trying to make me jealous about her dates. However, Birgit was not just leaving Wexford but was leaving California and moving to Reno, Nevada, where her new boyfriend worked as a booking-agent. Before she left, there was one small detail that needed attention. "I'd like to give you one percent of my own shares," I told her. "I might need your vote some day." "I doubt it," she replied. "But take it as a souvenir." "The share will be worth a lot of money one of these days," I said. "I don't think I'm a long way from striking it rich." "Striking it rich," she repeated. "The old California Dream, Bill. Believe me, I have more chance of hitting the jackpot in Reno than you have of striking it rich with Dennis Lawrence."
143
9 . RODNEY
One of the most attractive features of the collapsible bottle was its visual appearance. Particularly when made out of clear plastic, it had a n almost prismic look that suggested a luxury item rather than a potential customers had cheaply manufactured product. In asked me whether it was made in Europe. At the last show in Dallas I had even exposed a whole line of confectioneries in clear jars for Farm who were introducing a new, up-market range of packaged nuts. Unfortunately, Dale Gruberlee, the proprietor of Farm - a producer and wholesaler of confectionery nut products sold his company and the new owners decided t o stay away from the retail market altogether. The new range was consequently abandoned. In the spring of 1987 Dale Gruberlee came to me with an interesting proposition. He had been so impressed with the marketing potential of the new bottle that he suggested relaunching the abandoned range - even though it now meant that he would have to buy his nuts instead of producing them himself. Together, we developed an interesting idea; to rent a shop in Old Sacramento where he would retail his new range to the tourists who flocked there during the summer months and where I would also have the opportunity of selling my other customers' products, thereby evaluating their potential. The store, which we named 'Amazing Bottles', was three thousand square feet in size - mostly on the basement level. Although this meant that any view of Old Sacramento itself was severely limited - not t o say non-existent - I was able to rent the premises for only a thousand dollars a month which was an extremely low price for that area. With its numerous tourist attractions, Old Sacramento was a prime location for a shop of this sort. Our products included at least a dozen different confectionery items all individually labelled but marketed under the same logo Amazing Bottles. While I had some experience of retailing from the shop that Birgit and I had run back in Ann Arbor, I had n o experience in selling any product through national distribution channels. That
144
was what my other customers had been doing and while Dale took the time to educate was still the one to promote the line of products. Among other products sold at the store were four different fruitflavored concentrates from Pop Shake, produced by the Bernsteins. and his new company had four other fruit flavored Peter syrups selling under the name of Burple and using exotic and tropical mixes. had abandoned his range of empty containers at the Bison factory having failed to pay for them. I therefore purchased some of them and made them available at the Amazing Bottles store, having asked Dale Gruberlee to do his utmost to sell them and to distribute them to other stores. My intention was to demonstrate - when products were perthe time came to be in front of a judge that fectly saleable and that he could, at the very least, have made enough money out of them to pay royalty fees. I think it was as I was stock-taking at the Amazing Bottle store, prior to opening, that I began to take stock of what I had done myself since inventing the collapsible bottle. When I stood in the store and surveyed the various products that we were going to sell, it occurred to me that I had been involved in every one of them at all stages of their development generally in the absence of anyone else capable of doing the job. I was amazed that I was also one of the first people to retail the products. It was going to be interesting to gauge their acceptance. Lisa stood beside the cash register and filled in questionnaires after each sale, on where the buyer came from, whether they thought the price they'd paid was satisfactory and whether they would buy the product again. We were able to find out, for instance, that children preferred the smaller colored bottles, women preferred opaque jars and men preferred one- gallon jugs. It was at this time that I got to know Lisa's sister Annie and her husband Jim. Annie was an international sales representative for a computer software company and traveled extensively. Jim was a senior manager in Nordstrom's department stores corporate office. Annie was something of a revelation; I had naturally expected her to be pretty much like her sister but I found, instead, an extremely self-possessed, independent and sophisticated woman who bore a far closer resemblance to of all people Birgit. I went for dinner at their place one day only to find that they had an uninvited guest, Lisa's sister Tracy. She was in a sorry state lying in bed, sweating and crying and looking as if an early death was the one
145
PRIVATE SCREENING
thing on her mind. According to Lisa, Tracy would get into such moods after a heavy dose of cocaine but would always pull out of it in time. was straight again. A tall blonde Lisa was right. The next in her late twenties, she came to the store beautiful and, without even she began to help out. She did such a good job and was so meticulous in her work and so pleasant with customers that Lisa and I felt like amateurs in front of her. Later that day, we were still talking about what a good help she had been. "It might be a good idea to hire her permanently," said Lisa. "We have to be careful though. We've got to watch out for the cash register and keep a close inventory too otherwise she might just get back to her old habits." Lisa wasn't so convinced. She insisted that she enroll in a drugrehabilitation program and asked Dale to keep a close eye on her. As we had more or less expected, Tracy agreed to all our conditions. I continued to be impressed with Tracy and she stuck rigidly to her program. The center she attended was conveniently located and she would really have had no excuse for not going there. She continued to live with either Annie and Jim or us and occasionally at the corner hotel on those occasions when she decided to be extra nice to some of her customers. One day in June, I found myself talking to Dale about my shaky financial situation. He was sympathetic and offered to lend me ten thousand dollars to pay Tasco. At that moment, to my great surprise, Rodney Commons walked into the store. I say I was surprised but his office was no more than three blocks away and, since Old Sacramento had lots of restaurants, it was only natural that he would find himself in our neck of the woods from time to time. In fact he had probably known of the existence of the store since the day we opened. Rodney had overheard our conversation. He leaned on the counter smile. and gave me a "Bill," he said, "given the scope of this invention of yours, I think you'll find you always need more money." "You don't say," I replied. "Okay, Rodney, you're a lawyer; since you're here, why don't you make yourself useful and draft us a note for a ten thousand dollar loan?" "With pleasure," he said. He picked up a sheet of paper from the counter and scribbled a few lines.
146
"There you are, Bill," he said, handing it to me. "This is official." "Are you always that quick?" I asked. "When you drafted Mel's licenses, he ended up using them as an excuse to avoid paying me royalties. He said the contracts were too sketchy." "That's why I came down to see you," replied Rodney. "You terminated your contract with Interstate Marketing, right?" "That's right." "Well, I'd like to know if it's possible for me to take over Mel's international license." "You do know that he's disputed the termination and he's asked for the matter to go to arbitration?" I said. "Sure, I know. Don't forget, I am a partner of Interstate Marketing and I know what's going on. The time to file for your international patents will expire on October 8th and I doubt whether arbitration will be held before then. At that point it doesn't matter who wins your international patents will be lost forever." "You don't need to tell me that. Okay, if you want the international license, you can have it. leave it to you to draw up a letter of intent but listen, Rodney take a bit more care with it this time, huh?" "Will do," chuckled Rodney. "And in the meantime may I suggest you retain Ed Clifford to represent you against Mel. He's a good attorney; he'll do a first class job. And if you need my help, don't hesitate to let me know I can be your best witness."
A few days later, Rodney Commons came back into the store with a letter of intent for me to sign. He was to bear the costs of filing my second patent in over twenty countries and was to form a corporation, to be called SCAT, to do the marketing. For allowing him that privilege I was to receive no less than one hundred thousand dollars a year in royalty fees. It seemed to be a fair deal considering the patent rights to those countries would have lapsed anyway in less than three months time. One month later, as stated in the letter of intent, Rodney Commons had prepared a twenty page licensing agreement for me to review. It was an explicit document dealing with all eventualities and had been drafted by an attorney in the bay area a Mr Schnurmacher who was to be the trustee for SCAT - in cooperation with their patent attorney. My own patent attorney, Jeims Deimen, gave them all the necessary information regarding the status of my patents. Jeims had stopped
147
PRIVATE SCREENING
filing for those countries on Mel's behalf when he received no further payments from him. Rodney knew of this and, as the deadline was fast approaching, he had been quick to send him a twenty thousand dollar down-payment to pick up where he'd left off. I took the draft agreement to Ed Clifford for review: Rodney Commons had insisted on my getting a written statement from my attorney to the effect that I fully comprehended the nature of the agreement before I signed it. A few days later, Ed had revised the licensing agreement to my satisfaction and I took it over to Rodney Commons' office where a meeting of his new investors was scheduled. It was there that I was introduced to Max Hollis and Greg Freeman. Max was in his sixties and with his white beard and balding head he would have made a pretty good Santa Claus. Greg Freeman was much smaller and younger but just as pleasant. While Rodney was reviewing my lawyer's revised draft of the contract, the other two investors told me about themselves. Max was the proprietor of one of the largest avocado farms in California and was associated with Greg in a company dealing in real estate. They were both pretty rich. Max had a private plane and Greg owned a yacht. Personally, I failed to see how avocados, real estate and expensive hobbies could qualify them to exploit my patents overseas. "Don't worry, Bill," said Max. "Rodney's already had a year dealing with your bottles and he'll be doing the marketing for us.'' Rodney had finished reading his contract. "By the way," I asked him, "whatever happened to Schnurmacher?" "Mr Schnurmacher," he replied, "will join SCAT at a later date. Max Hollis here is going to be our new trustee." As soon as we had inserted the countries they wanted to have, we signed the agreement. It was very satisfying to leave Rodney's office seventy-five thousand dollars richer especially as I had contributed nothing in return. The SCAT partners were to pay for their own filings as well as for their own marketing; I was to keep twenty percent equity in SCAT and they had even given me my royalty fees up front. One of the hottest products in the development stages was General Food's Kool Aid bottle. Lou Pansini, after two years of testing, had decided that he preferred a one gallon container. In his opinion, there were already too many half-gallon sizes put out by Burple anyway and he wanted to look different. I had no objections to his changing his mind about the size as long as he didn't want to change his mind
148
about the entire project. This time however, he was paying both for the mold and the Kool Aid inscription on it and CBA could undeniably claim that Kool Aid was one of its customers. The testing of this bottle was being performed at the Bison factory and I invited Max and Greg to join me there. Lou Pansini was flying in to check on its progress and I wanted the SCAT partners to meet him. After all, General Foods was international and must have had subsidiaries in the countries exploited by them. This being the case, it was crucial that these foreign subsidiaries knew who to contact if they wished to use the new container. We spent most of the day chatting with Lou and finally the SCAT people left after Lou had given them the names of the necessary people to contact in White Plains, New York and had provided them with several samples of his bottles. This encounter in Los Angeles must have triggered some sort of wild acquisitive desire in the SCAT people since a few days later they called me requesting another license for an additional set of countries. I was asked to meet them once more at Rodney's office where, this time, I was introduced to a new partner Carlos Royal. I had thought that Greg and Max were rich but when they kept referring to Carlos as The Deep Pocket Man I started putting him in a category by himself. Carlos may or may not have had unlimited resources but he certainly had an unlimited imagination. He had already been to the Amazing Bottle Store in Old Sacramento and had found it very impressive. "You could franchise that operation," he said. "A store that sells only collapsible container packaging is a darned good idea. I'd like to have the rights for San A nationally franchised store called Collapsible Bottles certainly sounded like a winner. This would provide CBA, which would be the exclusive product-supplier to these stores, with a substantial income in addition to the regular franchise fees it would receive: while, in Ameri\ ca, new businesses fail at a rate of seventy percent, only four percent of franchises are discontinued each year. I agreed to let Carlos open his store. Since this was not an urgent matter and was the result of Carlos' personal wishes and had nothing to do with the SCAT operation, I referred him to Dennis Lawrence. We returned to the subject of the second SCAT license and finally, in return for the addition of another twenty-five countries, they handed me a check for sixty thousand dollars.
149
PRIVATE SCREENING
As soon as the agreement was signed the whole SCAT team followed me to the printer's shop where my new six-page technical brochure was being prepared. This was a technical analysis of the first patent for collapsible bottles, the second patent for hollow articles incorporating the U-shaped hinge and the third patent for freshness and tamper monitoring closures. In order to compose this brochure, which was to be presented at the upcoming in Chicago, I'd had to plough my way through a vast amount of technical literature. I'd also hired the services of a friend of mine to provide the illustrations and photographs. Making this information available was long overdue: most of our potential customers had been hesitant about embracing the new technology simply because they didn't fully understand it. Little did I know, when I went to so much trouble to compile the brochure, that it would ultimately cause me to lose my first law-suit and cost me half a million dollars in damages and legal fees. I returned home to find Lisa standing at the door and holding her hand out for the check. A month earlier she'd been furious to see me deposit seventy-five thousand dollars of my own money into the CBA account instead of our own, only to see it vanish as quickly as it had materialized. "This sixty thousand dollars," she said, "is our down-payment on a house. I'm sick and tired of getting eviction notices. Andrew needs a secure home." I could appreciate Lisa's point of view; as far as she was concerned, my money was being spent on nothing more than chunks of metal. For me, however, those molds were an investment for the future.
I was now driving to L.A. on a weekly basis to check on the progress of the molds. Usually this involved meeting Dennis Lawrence in one of the factories, whether he was actually invited there or not. As I saw it, these meetings had less to do with business than with Dennis' wish to stay in touch with a friend. I didn't mind that as long as we both knew where we stood. It was around this time that Max Hollis was trying to sell me a thirty-two foot motor home a 1976 Bluebird bus that he was offering for seventy thousand dollars. "It's in perfect shape," said Max, sounding very much like the salesman at 'Moe's Used Cars'. "You'd love it, really you would. Just think of all the time you spend in Los Angeles sitting in some crummy old
150
room, sniffing plastic fumes and listening to the noise of the factory. Do yourself a favor, Bill: get yourself a motor home before you get lung cancer and lose your ears. Listen, I'll be at the Bison factory today you can have a good look at it there." If anyone knew about noise and fumes it was Max. He had toured all the manufacturers in L.A., teaching himself the plastics business and picking up prices. He and Rodney had told me on several occasions that their first objective was for SCAT to offer my U.S. customers better pricing for their products. It was certainly something we kept to ourselves: the manufacturers would have been very upset to know that they were being spied upon. "So if this is such a great motor home," I said to Max, "how come you're selling it?" "Well, I don't need the money if that's what you think," he replied. "As a matter of fact, I'm buying a new one. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars worth." "Jesus!" I exclaimed. "For that sort of money I could stick my house on wheels and put an engine in it!" When I arrived at the factory shortly before lunch, Bison's Jack Keller and Max were already talking dollars and cents. Max's Bluebird was parked outside on the street. It certainly was the Rolls Royce of motor homes. It looked every bit tank and, in spite of its age, there was not a dent or a as solid as an rust-spot anywhere. One brief peek at the interior was enough to tell me that this was indisputably Max's baby. A few minutes after my arrival, Dennis joined us from San and we all took the motor home on a test drive. We cruised along sedately for a couple of miles and I think all of us were pretty impressed by its smooth handling, its power and the comfort of its well-appointed interior. Impressed, that is, until we came to the first major intersection. Max gave us a happy smile, shifted the transmission out of neutral and then lurched convulsively as the engine stalled and died. "It doesn't usually do this," he muttered, turning the key in the ignition. "Naw, it usually does it earlier," laughed Jack Keller. Max engaged the starter once more. The engine turned slower, slower still and then, with an apologetic cough, turned no more. bet it doesn't usually do that either," I said. Max threw me a withering look. "Must be the battery," he growled.
151
PRIVATE SCREENING
uled a meeting with the head of corporate packaging. I drove to Cincinatti for that purpose and was given a tour of many of their facilities by the head of the department. Finally we sat down in a conference room and were joined by several of his top engineers and marketing associates. I knew exactly what they were thinking: 'this is the man behind the Burple bottle'. "So you're the man behind the Burple bottle," said the head of packaging. "We've got a bone to pick with you. Your licensee comes right to our backyard and launches a new concentrate in your containers and we're still wondering what hit us. Is there a chance we can have a similar license from you?" "Not on the liquid syrups," I said. "But for juices, yes." "Well, as you know, Citrus Hill is one of our products. That might be a possibility for your bottle." "That'd be great," I said. "Anything with real juice content would make more of an adult drink and that's one market Burple isn't targeting." "Thank God for that!" Burple had been introduced in many cities in Ohio, Michigan and Illinois. It had succeeded in acquiring over fifty percent of the market share and had sent all major corporations with juice products into a state of shock. When Proctor and Gamble asked me to give them a technical rundown on the merits of my patents and the variety of potential designs, I was proud to be teaching them a new technology that I had developed myself. Having all of these experts listening to me with so much attentiveness and such anxiety to learn - scribbling down every word and every drawing I put on the board were moments I would cherish forever. There was no doubt that I had been accepted as the expert in this field. I left Proctor and Gamble with high hopes that they would be my next licensee for the lucrative fruit juice market. What I discovered later shocked me and cast a shadow over the integrity and respect that I held for large corporations. No sooner had I left their sight than Proctor and Gamble instructed their patent attorneys to file a patent for an expandable container using bellows designed specifically for concentrates as protected in the claims of my own patents. My discovery of this shameful act unfortunately came at a time when I was restricted by a judge from 'interfering' with my own patents. I started to take Lisa's idea of moving to Ohio seriously and promised her that I would make further inquiries about the property.
152
He had agreed to do that but neither Dennis nor I heard from him again on that subject and I continued to refuse to sign the documents he sent me. It was also interesting that, although I was a partner in SCAT, I had never received written confirmation that the company had been formed, much less that it had subsidiaries. I would have expected a lawyer to have been much more circumspect. I had just bought my first new car ever a Ford Aerostar minivan. Not only was it perfect as a family vehicle but it could be easily converted for cargo use. I decided to drive to Chicago in i t . rather than in Max's motor home , pulling an eight foot trailer loaded with thousands of containers. Andrew could not understand how we could have another vehicle almost glued to our back window for three days. It was an easy ride and more or less followed the route that I had once taken in the other direction with Donna. I was even able to point out to Lisa the place where we had almost lost our lives in Nebraska. Hotel Having arrived in Chicago we drove directly to the and checked in. It was already evening and with all the junk food we had eaten along the way we didn't bother with dinner. The trip, had been exhausting, however, and Andrew was feeling sick. None of us had any problems falling asleep. The next day, I realized that the hotel was still a few miles away from the Convention Center. From that point on, it was the same routine all over again. First I had to register with the InterBev team. Fortunately, this time all I had to do was mention collapsible bottles and they immediately knew who we were and who I was in particular. "If you know me so well," I said to the representative, "why do I always have to give you a certified check or cash? Don't you trust us?" This was our third year. CBA always had to register late as we never knew whether we would be able to afford to participate. It was a decision that was always taken at the very last minute. The InterBev people must have realized that too otherwise they wouldn't have asked for guaranteed payments. Of course it also meant that we still got the worst possible locations. Because of the inevitable last minute cancelations, I knew that I could always relocate my booth to a better spot. This time it was twice as big as the year before in Dallas and four times as big as at the Anaheim show.
153
PRIVATE SCREENING
Two years earlier, our strategy had been to sell the collapsible bottle concept for a large variety of applications. The year before, the emphasis had been on concentrates only. This year, however, we were to demonstrate that the product was actually selling and had found its had already shipped place with the consumer. To prove it, Peter over three thousand of his Burple bottles. So too had the Bernsteins with Pop 'n' Shake. In addition I had brought with me four thousand empty containers employing the U-shaped hinges a technology which was going to make its debut here. Finally, for the most skeptical, we had even brought in dozens of one gallon Kool Aid bottles. By the time we had rented the furniture and set up the booth, it was already evening and I went back to the hotel to have dinner with my family. Lisa had not minded my absence; it had taken her the whole day to unwind and Andrew to recover from his sickness. She had also called her parents in Bluffton to prepare them for our visit at the end of the week. There was a message from Dennis Lawrence who wanted me to pick him up from the airport the next day. Dennis duly arrived in town and so too did the SCAT partners, except for Max who was vacationing in the Caribbean. The show opened very promisingly. The vast majority of the exhibitors had also been there in previous years and we recognized many of the same people who had come to see us in Anaheim and Dallas. Dennis and I made a special effort to introduce the SCAT team to anybody who might be interested in their territories and we even put new stickers in all of our brochures with the SCAT address on them. The SCAT people, however, seemed to have some sort of conspiracy going. Ours was a corner booth and they managed to position themselves at each approach to it, intercepting all of the clients and interested parties and keeping their business cards. This was regardless of whether those inquiries were for the U.S. operation and Europe, which they were supposed to refer to Dennis and me, or for their own countries. It was creating friction between us. I couldn't see any purpose behind their actions; our contracts were very specific. Exhausted and frustrated, I went to sit at a bar directly across from our booth. Carlos joined me. "Bill," he said, "I understand from Max that you want to borrow forty thousand dollars." "Yes," I replied. "I was counting on some royalty money from the Burple licensee but he's going to be a couple of months late." "I could loan it to you," he said. "If you give me the rights to Canada as collateral."
154
"I can't do that," I said, and waved for Dennis to join us. Dennis explained to him that we had over one hundred and fifty thousand dollars worth of molds and that we could always use some of those as collateral. At that point I left them to get back to the booth where my assistance was requested. Dennis and Carlos did not come to an agreement. "He's new to the company," said later. "He doesn't understand the value of molds." I couldn't understand why the SCAT team were being so stubborn about guarantees when their next royalty payment of sixty-six thousand dollars due in less than two months. "Yes," I said to Dennis. "It makes you wonder, doesn't it? Maybe these people don't intend to honor their license.Just wait; they'll probably blame us for breaching it." This was, of course, only speculation then and our relationship remained amicable until the end of InterBev, at which point they packed hundreds of leftover brochures and bottles and shipped them to California. We shook hands on a successful show. While everybody else returned to California, we headed south to Bluffton. between CleveBluffton, Ohio, was a tiny town located land and Dayton, off Interstate 71. At the highway exit, Lisa was surprised to see a McDonalds under construction. Bang goes the neighborhood," she said. "This is the first change I've in town in years." We were in the heart of the midwest farmlands and the country was flat as far as eye could see. Aside from its main street, town to mostly residential. The only institutions of any size were the college and the Triplett instrument factory. It was the first time I had met Lisa's father and lost n o time in showing me his library. Even though had long been retired, Norman Triplett still great passions: reading and red Cadillacs. Lisa had told me how, when she was younger, and sisters would duck behind any available shelter when they saw their father driving around town-so great was their embarrassment. Norman made me very welcome to his home, was captivated with his grandson and thanked me for my part in helping Tracy keep off the streets. I had been afraid that Norman would lecture me on moral values Lisa and I were unmarried, after all - but he never brought up the sub-
155
PRIVATE SCREENING
ject. handed me a bunch of business books that he recommended and never stopped giving me hints on good commercial practice. Now I understood what Lisa had meant when she had complained of her father's having a one-track mind. In order to drive home his points, Norman arranged a tour of the Triplett factory for us. In fact, there was more to it than simply instructing me on how a business ought to be run - Jim and Annie were also staying at the Triplett home and this was Norman's first opportunity to show his daughters and their husbands around. All the employees seemed to recognize him and several of them approached us and shook him by the hand. I wasn't surprised. Even given the fact that he had once been the boss of the entire company, I was sure that in a town of this size everybody knew everybody else. It was a tight-knit community and I soon had a comfortable feeling of belonging somewhere. That evening we went to watch a football game. It came as a very small surprise to find that the stadium was named after Norman. "Son," I said to Andrew, as the game was in progress, "this is one half of your family you can always be proud of." We spent the next days visiting more of Lisa's relatives and it was on one of these trips, as we were driving along a country road, that we saw a farmhouse with two acres of land for sale. Lisa asked me to stop and we got out of the car and went to take a look. "Wouldn't it be nice if this was our place?" said Lisa. dreamily. "Lisa," I replied. "This place is miles away from anywhere - hundreds of miles from my business and my customers." "Didn't you say that Burple was manufacturing bottles in Illinois and filling them in Cincinatti?" said Lisa. "That's only two hours from here." She was right. Peter was putting out his products in Ohio and his market strategy was to introduce them throughout the midwestern states. He was by far my biggest customer and all eyes were on him, as were all my hopes and future. It was a daring strategy on his part: Cincinatti was also the home of Proctor and Gamble. I had been sending information, brochures and containers to several departments within Proctor and Gamble. Dozens of their engineers had filled in the inquiry numbers after each time an article was published in a trade magazine. To have a corporation of their size request further information on a such a consistent basis was very was no coincidence that I had gone to at this time: I had sched-
156
uled a meeting with the head of corporate packaging. I drove to Cincinatti for that purpose and was given a tour of many of their facilities by the head of the department. Finally we sat down in a conference room and were joined by several of his top engineers and marketing associates. I knew exactly what they were thinking: 'this is the man behind the Burple bottle'. "So you're the man behind the Burple bottle," said the head of packaging. "We've got a bone to pick with you. Your licensee comes right to our backyard and launches a new concentrate in your containers and we're still wondering what hit us. Is there a chance we can have a similar license from you?" "Not on the liquid syrups," I said. "But for juices, yes." "Well, as you know, Citrus Hill is one of our products. That might be a possibility for your bottle." "That'd be great," I said. "Anything with real juice content would make more of an adult drink and that's one market Burple isn't targeting." "Thank God for that!" Burple had been introduced in many cities in Ohio, Michigan and Illinois. It had succeeded in acquiring over fifty percent of the market share and had sent all major corporations with juice products into a state of shock. When Proctor and Gamble asked me to give them a technical rundown on the merits of my patents and the variety of potential designs, I was proud to be teaching them a new technology that I had developed myself. Having all of these experts listening to me with so much attentiveness and such anxiety to learn - scribbling down every word and every drawing I put on the board - were moments I would cherish forever. There was no doubt that I had been accepted as the expert in this field. I left Proctor and Gamble with high hopes that they would be my next licensee for the lucrative fruit juice market. What I discovered later shocked me and cast a shadow over the integrity and respect that I held for large corporations. No sooner had I left their sight than Proctor and Gamble instructed their patent attorneys to file a patent for an expandable container using bellows designed specifically for concentrates as protected in the claims of my own patents. My discovery of this shameful act unfortunately came at a time when I was restricted by a judge from 'interfering' with my own patents.
I started to take Lisa's idea of moving to Ohio seriously and promised her that I would make further inquiries about the property.
157
PRIVATE SCREENING
The owners turned out to be an old retired couple who had once worked for Triplett Instruments and were about to move into a retirement home. We liked the house; I had sixty thousand dollars in the bank; the owners were asking seventy-five thousand. I talked them down to fifty-five thousand and effected an immediate transfer of funds. We bought the house cash. In a way I felt relieved to be getting away from the artificial, hectic life in California, not to mention its high costs: a house such as the one we'd just bought would have cost as much there. At least we no longer had to worry about five being evicted and CBA now had some sort of secure base for its operations. I returned to California to plead for a meeting with some of my partners. Dr Thomas, Dr Khori and Dr Terry duly met me at the St Joseph conference room and I quickly gave them a rundown on financial situation. "I've bought a house in Ohio, gentlemen. Cash! CBA will never have to worry about a place from which to conduct business. The papers aren't finalized yet but I should tell you that I am about to be evicted from my home in Sacramento. Is there anything you can spare to help me last till the end of the year?" They were all embarrassed. "I can't believe that with the hundreds of thousands of dollars that you've made, you still manage to get yourself into these situations," said Dr Thomas. "I depend on Sundale's royalties," I replied. "Peter seems to always have last minute money problems that automatically translate to ours." "Couldn't you threaten him in some way?" asked Dr Khori. "What good would it do? He lives from hand to mouth just like the rest of us. He's probably crying to his partners right now. We're all in an unpredictable and uncertain business. It just requires time." I did not receive any money. What I did receive was a visit from Dr Thomas at my house in Sacramento. He sat down, had tea with me and my family, read the notice of eviction from the Sheriff's department and, in a gesture of pity, wrote a check for thirty-five hundred dollars. "Merry Christmas," he said. "I have to go now." He stroked Andrew's head and left. A year before, I had hired Dennis Lawrence to seek out investors for my European operation. The Collapsible Bottle International partnership had been established in Missouri and the offering documents
158
had been distributed to investors around the country but yet I still hadn't heard of his raising a single dollar. What was more, Wexford Capital had now been shut down for six months and there seemed little hope of his raising it in the foreseeable future. Dennis blamed his failure on disputes he had had with his partner, Mr Brown, and on the incompetence of Michael Hudson whom he had hired to prepare the documents. Now he was positioning himself to become a full-time employee of CBA. "I don't see it as a problem for CBA to give you an employment contract," I said, on many occasions, "but you have to give me that C.V. you promised. My partners will certainly want to know your past history." Dennis' version of his past history was vastly different from anything that Michael Hudson, Bob Smith or even Birgit had told me. He claimed to have been a certified accountant, to have managed an insurance company and owned a trucking business. He also said that he had started the first co-generation systems in California. I knew he was lying to me and that his would have been grounds for terminating his employment should a dispute have arisen between us. There was also a great mystery about exactly how and why Wexford had been wound up and I knew that there was an FBI investigation in progress. After he left Wexford, Dennis had moved across the street to a small one-room office on Executive Square with shared services where he was using the CBA name and the collapsible bottle, of which he had samples, to interest people in investing their money. I visited him there once and was very surprised to see the CBA sign outside his door. Moreover, his desk was covered in files that had no relation to any CBA activity. "Dennis," I said. "You're using the CBA name without my authorization. If you want to keep it, I'd like you to stop dealing with any other businesses." "You know that most of my business is with CBA right now," he replied. I had to accept his word: I simply didn't know enough about his other dealings to make a comparison. All the same, I was concerned that CBA might be getting mixed up in some shady deal as a result of Dennis' past. Although my customers also knew nothing of his other activities, they all had their own reasons for disliking him.
159
PRIVATE SCREENING
"Why do you use this guy?" said Issie Kroll. "He only likes to play office." CBA had made no commitments to Dennis. I had already paid him for his services when he helped me negotiate the SCAT and the J K Marketing agreements. At the time, his failure to give me his resume suggested to me that he actually wished to remain a freelance consultant, or at least work on a non-contract basis. He Dennis' true talent came out in the dispute with seemed to know all the tricks, all the legal loopholes, and immediately took charge of the case on behalf of CBA with my lawyers Ed Clifford and Bill Baker. I was becoming increasingly busy with the latest designs and developments and it seemed that I had nothing to lose by letting him handle the case for me. "You need me, he said. "It's like having a big, ugly dog to catch rats for you." "Really?" "Sure it is. Listen. Let me give you a word of advice: get yourself into a position where it's your word against someone else's." "So you mean lie-detectorsare no good?" I said. "It's better to have a witness?" an accomplice." It was no accident that he used that word: it was to remind me that his lie about when the termination notice had been sent to man was only known to the two of us and could possibly be used against me in the future. I immediately regretted not having a witness to testify that it had all been Dennis' idea. Not that it would have done me any good: Dennis probably had his own witness already. was held in downtown San The arbitration with Francisco on December 9th 1987. Though I could have easily commuted from Sacramento, I decided to share the hotel room with Dennis only a block away from the law-firm where the arbitration was to be held. Except for seeing Dennis clad only in his shorts, there was nothing particularly untoward in all this: we had spent the last few weeks constantly in touch with each other, either by telephone or fax, in preparation for this day. There was also a extensive list of witnesses we needed to bring or have write affidavits and this meant constant contact. Lisa had made herself scarce as any kind of discussions always seemed to end up in arguments with me shouting at her.
160
It was my first time ever in front of a man of law and the prospect was making me very edgy. But all of the sacrifices and preparations seemed to have paid off: when the hearing started, the large number of witnesses, the documents, the presence of my two attorneys and look like an outcast. myself as the inventor all conspired to make Everybody in the room seemed to have success stories regarding the bottle except him. argument was that his termination was served on him too prematurely and without due notice - which was, indeed, true. On the other hand, Issie Kroll and Michael Sander, the two owners of Popeet, showed the arbitrator several of their TV commercials and demonstrated how would have made a substantial income had he agreed to license them. "Sir," said Mel, in reply, "Popeet put bottles on the market using a technology from Mr Touzanis second patent. I was the first to develop the bottle using the U-shaped hinges but yet I was cut out of it by Mr Touzani. He licensed Popeet directly on his second patent." "Mr Touzani was free to license his other invention to whom he pleased," said Ed Clifford, my attorney, in response, "and that did not license to Mr Mr had thousands infringe on technology but yet refused to sell of containers produced under them." At that point it was just a question of calling in Peter the Bernsteins and Dale Gruberlee one at a time and listening to them testify to having sold several million bottles from the same earlier technology that was now claiming to be worthless. The arbitrator, after that, was led to a separate room by my lawyers where he was shown several commercials for Popeet, Burple and Pop Shake. On the last day of the arbitration, we were surprised to see several point-of-purchase displays in the conference room filled with collapsed and labelled bottles of all sorts - all going under the brand-name had Shrinkables. It was an impressive display and I only wished put them on the market over a year earlier when the containers had been first available. I guess the arbitrator was also impressed since he made it clear to us at that point that neither one of us was going to leave the room empty-handed and that we had better come to a compromise. "From what I've seen and heard in the last three days," he said to Mel, "you had plenty of time to perform and you chose not to. If I were in your place I would ask Mr Touzani for mercy."
161
PRIVATE SCREENING
He got up from his chair and, as he was walking towards the door, he continued speaking, whilst staring at and his lawyer. be back in a few minutes and I strongly recommend you accept whatever generous offer Mr Touzanis willing to make you." There was a long silence after that. It was obvious to me that we had won and had lost. It was also obvious to that he'd either lost everything, or almost everything. It must have seemed to him then that he had only two choices left; either to shoot himself or go down on his knees and beg. I took the initiative by asking him to follow me to an adjacent room for a private discussion. There, I assured him that I would be willing to work with him and help him in any way if he forfeited his exclusive rights on the reusable containers. This, of course, would mean that he would have more competition in the market. A further condition was that he would have to abandon all of his international licenses. This was very important to me as without that SCAT would have had no reason to exist and Rodney Commons might well agreed to all conditions. have ended up in jail. The case was settled in our favor yet it had still cost me sixty thousand dollars - almost the price of my house in Ohio. For his part, had shown a lot of integrity and honesty. He could have very easily lied about certain things but had chosen not to and I truly wished him success with his business. When it came down to it, I liked Mel. He had always shown himself to be a very sympathetic character and I could not understand why he should have wanted to shoot himself in the foot. Finally, I was free. My last attachment to California was no more. Ohio here I come! I was singing in my car all the way back to Sacramento. When I arrived home it was nearly ten in the evening and the house was deserted. I was surprised; Lisa should have been expecting me. Just as I was on the point of calling her sister, the phone rang. "Bill, it's me," said Lisa. "I just want you to know that we are fine and that you don't need to look for us." "What're you saying?" I asked. "It's over now. We won the case." "You're right," she replied. "It is over now. And there'll always be another case. And by the way, you ought to move out too there's an eviction notice from the Sheriff's department on top of the TV." I was taken completely off guard. It was all totally unexpected. I knew, however, that her decision was to be irreversible. She was not
162
staying with her sister because she rightly assumed that I would come looking for her. Instead, she chose to stay with friends. It would have been useless for me to have attempted to find them but there was a deep emptiness in me. I had not seen Andrew in three days and it was hurting. He had become like a drug for me I was addicted to him. For all his eighteen months I also knew that he was addicted to me. I was sure that he would be asking for me every day and night. Staying at the house alone was unbearableand so I decided to pack my furniture and put it into storage. The Amazing Bottle Store was shut down and Tracy was looking for a new job. Dale was more than happy to take that load off his mind; he'd had to spend far too much time analyzing the real motives of the customers were they interested in his products or his saleswoman? He moved his entire operation for national distribution to a nearby warehouse, away from the tourists. I started preparing to drive down to San because I needed company even if it was Dennis' when Rodney Commons called and asked me to come to his office for an urgent meeting of the SCAT partners. I held twenty percent equity in SCAT but I had no duties to perform was no longer a within it. I assumed that, now that threat to their international license, they were finally going to put some big bucks into this project. Or at least pay me my sixty-six thousand dollars which was due in only a few days. As I entered the office, I could see from the faces of Rodney, Max, Greg and Carlos, that something was badly wrong. They looked like executioners and didn't even bother to ask me to take a seat. It was Rodney who began. "You broke your promises to us," he declared, "and you've caused us lots of damage." "Boy," I thought, "he sounds like Lisa." "The partners here," he continued, "would like CBA to refund us the two hundred and fifty thousand that they've spent on the business so far and they'd also like you to give us the patent rights for Canada and Mexico." All of a sudden the situation was becoming clear. It could all be summarized in one word; greed. It was only six months since I had licensed them and now they did not want out they wanted more. They had put all of their hopes on Rodney's professed ability to conquer the Far East market and his hopes of finding some rich sheik to buy out the Middle Eastern market. He had just come back from his
163
PRIVATE SCREENING
third Asian 'business' trip empty handed and their patience was running out. They must have realized that in order to make quick money they needed to be much closer to home. Since the U.S. market had been denied them, why not be just on the other side of the border? I had seen similar situations in the past with other licensees when they either abandoned the project and left quietly or renegotiated another payment schedule. No one, however, had ever accused me of hindering their marketing ability as a result of verbal promises only to turn around and ask for additional territories. Their objective, of course, was to take advantage of me. Seeing that I was carrying responsibilities far beyond any one man's capabilities they probably thought I'd be a pushover. On the other hand, having and prevailed seen the way in which I had stood up to should have been an indication that it wasn't going to be as easy as that. All in all, however, it was an unbelievable situation. A crazy theater of the absurd. "Look, Rodney," I said. "You once recommended Ed Clifford to me. Well, now he is my attorney and if you feel that I've breached our licensing agreement please send your complaint to him in writing." And, with that, I left them.
164
PART TWO
THE FRAME-UP
165
166
10 . DENNIS
It wasn't a need for Dennis' company that made me move to San B now, my suspicions were thoroughly aroused and had there y been anywhere to go that would have taken me out of California and away from people like him, I would most certainly have gone there. As or Los Angeles it was, my possibilities were limited to either San and since, despite my innumerable visits, I heartily disliked L.A., San was the only real choice. But there was more to it than that: San had come to symbolize my ideal of what America had to offer and I wanted to be a part of it. Unfortunately - and here is another contradiction - the best thing about the city as far as I was concerned was its proximity to Mexico. I had taken every possible opportunity on my visits to Southern California to slip across the border with the furtiveness of some sort of A weekend trip wasn't really complete without weird reverse or Ensenada. After the orderliness, the cleanlian excursion to ness, the wealth of California, I found the filth and squalor and grinding poverty of Mexico strangely refreshing. It reminded me of my childhood when I would return to Morocco from my formal, conservative school in France to find overladen donkeys struggling through crowded alleyways, open sewers, plagues of flies and, passing through the outstretched hands and garbled offers of guided tours, illicit encounters and unrefusable bargains, the single, solitary tourist standing out like a diamond on a dung-heap. However financially insecure I might be, a Mexican peasant would have thought me unbelievably rich and it was that contrast that helped me keep my problems in their proper perspective. I wouldn't have needed such a contrast had I moved to Bluffton, Ohio. was an honest, hard-working community not much given to lavish displays of wealth and status. It would have been the perfect environment in which to build my business empire but, thanks to Lisa's untimely departure, that was an avenue which was now closed
167
PRIVATE SCREENING
to me. Hindsight, so they say, is a benefit but in reality it is a terrible would ultimately spell such thing: had I known then that San disaster for me, I would have gone to Bluffton, Lisa or no Lisa. When I first decided to move to San the only disadvantage that I could see was the presence there of Dennis Lawrence. I consoled myself with the thought that if, for some reason, I didn't want to meet him, the city was big enough for me to lead a normal life without bumping into him at every turn of the street. What was more, Dennis' chronic weight problems suggested that if he did get out of his car it would only be to walk to the nearest seat. It came as quite a surprise when Dennis offered me a room. Given my reduced financial circumstances, I would normally have jumped at such an offer but knowing Dennis as I did, I immediately began to look for ulterior motives. The most obvious was that his financial circumstances were even more reduced than my own. The house in La Jolla, which he had said he could sell for a million dollars, had been rented and, having declared personal bankruptcy, he was now obliged to live in far more modest surroundings. It seemed clear that my role in his new home would not be that of long-term guest but of rent-payer. The only other motive that seemed in any way credible was that this was Dennis' way of offering his friendship. Now Dennis' friendship was not something that one would immediately want to cultivate: lookalike aside from the facts that he wasn't exactly a Paul and was about as physically fit as a day-old corpse, his company was something that I tended to endure rather than enjoy. To put it bluntly, although he was an astute, if not always fair-minded businessman, he was certainly not known for the breadth of his cultural interests or the sharpness and sophistication of his wit. To add to this, I couldn't see why, of all people, he should honor me with his friendship for at that point in my life, I was anything but lovable. The trials of the past two years had brought out the aggressive, prickly side of my nature; I viewed every approach with suspicion and, at all costs, I wanted to avoid any display of emotion that might be construed as weakness. Briefly, constant insecurity had radically altered my behavior. I was not entirely nice to know. Nevertheless, I accepted Dennis' offer partly because I could afford little else and partly because I at last saw a way of making him useful. The only business asset that Dennis possessed, or claimed to possess, was his expertise in book-keeping and accounting. So far this had not been a major priority simply because I had spent the last two years
168
THE FRAME-UP
on the verge of having no business at all. Sooner or later, however, Uncle Sam would want to know what we were doing, where the money had come from and where it had disappeared to and he was not a gentleman who was generally noted for his understanding or his sense of humor. The majority of CBA's files had now been with Dennis for several months ever since Birgit had begun to run the business from his him office. The only aspect of our activities that I had kept away were the accounts, which were still being handled by my partners' accounting firm. Kevin Schwemley, who had now graduated and joined the firm, was dealing with them personally. B the time I moved down to San y I had been in fairly constant touch with Kevin in a forlorn attempt to make head or tail of the CBA expenses: the major problem being keeping my personal expenses and those of CBA separate. Kevin, unfortunately, was never given a lot to go on. The only receipts coming in were in the form of statements from CBA's bank and my personal credit cards. "It grieves me to say this, Bill," he complained, "but I've never come across a more disorganized person in my entire life. Let me put it this way: if you hadn't been so close to my father, I wouldn't have touched your accounts with a ten foot pole. No, make that twenty foot." "I'm sorry, Kevin. I have to admit that paperwork has never been my strong point. I guess I'm more cut out for the field than the office. If it's any consolation, you're not the first to say that: all of my previous employers complained about my failing to hold onto receipts." "It would help if you could get company credit cards," said Kevin. "I'm getting sick of calling you to find out what's business and what's personal." "I wish it were that simple," I said. "I've requested corporate cards on any number of occasions but I'm afraid CBA has no credit history and the companies just won't play ball. I've got no choice but to use my own for company business." "Couldn't you just pay cash from time to time?" he asked, desperately. "Cash? You mean real money?" "Okay," he sighed. "I get your point. I guess those days have long gone." "At your age," I replied, "I'm surprised you even remember them."
169
PRIVATE SCREENING
Nevertheless, the day finally dawned when I was able to call Kevin, instead of his calling me, and give him the news that he had waited so long to hear. "I'm hiring a new employee." "That's nice." "His name is Dennis Lawrence and he's an accountant. From now on he'll be doing your work." "Gee, Bill, you're my heart. So what do you want me to do with those unpaid bills?" "Send them down to Dennis. With any luck, he'll put them under the right heading." It looked as if Dennis Lawrence, having failed to provide my two and a half million dollars, was at least going to save us some money. I thought, of course, that he was a certified public accountant. It was not a blind assumption on my part: Dennis had taken great pride in telling me that. Dennis' home was one of a row of houses located in a fairly large complex with tennis courts at the front and a swimming-pool just around the corner. As soon as I bent down to remove the front-door key from under the mat, I realized why I had unconsciously chosen that particular time to move down to San Dennis would be away for a week and I would have the house to myself. Dennis had a girlfriend in Nashville, Tennessee. In spite of the vast distances involved, they had managed to maintain some sort of relationship for several years but it must have been as fraught emotionally as it was ruinous financially and I often wondered why his never seemed to come out west. On reflection, however, one thousand nine hundred and ninety one statute miles is a fairly comfortable distance to put between yourself and Dennis Lawrence. It was a two-bedroom house with a split-level living room, a kitchen and a den. It seemed big enough for two. Dennis had converted the living room into an office by the fairly simple expedient of plating files and documents on every available surface and allowing the surplus to overflow into the kitchen. Most of the papers appeared to be legal in nature and at first I couldn't understand why he had left them on open view, especially as I had already raised the question of his mixing business with his other matters in his single-room office on Executive Square. In fact it was hard to ignore these documents when opening almost any cupboard meant being literally showered with
170
THE FRAME-UP
them. About the only two places that seemed relatively document-free were the bathroom and the refrigerator. It didn't take me long to figure out the reason for this carefully arranged disorder. Having just been through an unpleasant and unnecessary showdown with and being faced with the imminent prospect of a second law-suit from the SCAT partners, I was obviously intended to infer that legal problems were an inherent part of any business and that Dennis' expertise was indispensable. It was a very effective message: this was not my house and, being unable to take it upon myself to tidy up the mess, I was obliged to live with it for a week. It was a constant reminder of what the future might hold. Dennis returned from Tennessee shortly after New Year and we immediately got down to organizing our business. Having spent the last three years working out of my home, I think I had considerably fewer problems with it than Dennis. The only difference for me was that Mr Lawrence had taken the place of Birgit and Lisa and that was a definite step downwards. Not only was I less than enthusiastic about having to face his sheer unshaven bulk every morning but his rather messy, not to say disgusting eating habits convinced me that I would came through with his next have to move out as soon as Peter royalty payment. Then, one morning, something happened which provided a welcome diversion from Dennis Lawrence's personal habits. I answered the doorbell to find Tracy standing in front of me. "Hi, Bill!" she said cheerfully. "I guess you didn't expect to see me, huh?" "That's putting it mildly." "Listen, I won't beat around the bush: I'm looking for a job. I thought maybe you might be able to help me." "Well eah. Maybe," I replied. "But how did you find me here?" "Oh, a little bird told me." Lisa. Of course. "Well I guess you'd better come in. Don't mind the mess Dennis's still doing the spring-cleaningfrom last spring." Tracy was no stranger to San She had already spent a couple of years there and had left with a fully-fledged drug habit. Naturally, I had no desire to see her return to her old way of life but she promised to stay on her best behavior and she certainly hadn't let us down in the Amazing Bottle Store. Apart from that, I didn't have any qualms about
171
PRIVATE SCREENING
employing her: she was, after all, Andrew's aunt and I figured that having her around might convince Lisa to let him come and visit me. Tracy had no illusions about the future for Lisa and me and felt no guilt about introducing me to some of her girlfriends. There was also, it must be said, negligible love lost between her and her sister whom she had never entirely forgiven for objecting to my employing her in Sacramento. It was thanks to Tracy that I met Shawna. "What do you think of that?" she said to me one day. She held up the magazine that she'd been leafing through. I saw a full-page ad featuring a beautiful blonde almost wearing a luxurious fur coat. "Nice coat," I replied. "I meant the girl." "Oh." I gave the ad a second look. "Pretty. Beautiful, in fact. Why? What's the angle?" "There's no angle," she said. "I know her, that's all. Her name is Shawna." "Nobody's perfect." "She used to be my room-mate. Interested in meeting her?" "You missed your vocation," I said. "All you need is a sharp suit and a pink Cadillac and you'd be all set for the rapidly-expanding world of big-time procuration." "Procu-what?" "Pimping." "Okay! It was only a suggestion. If I'd known you were going to feel that way about it I'd have kept my mouth shut." "Sorry, Tracy," I said. "Just a little joke." "Very little, Bill. So you're not interested?" "I didn't say that." In fact dating was not exactly high on my list of priorities at this time. I was still reeling from Lisa's departure and I needed another emotional entanglement like I needed two Dennis Lawrences. But I was curious. I was interested to see how the real Shawna would match up to the carefully posed, skillfully lit and immaculately made-up beauty in the magazine. And I had to admit that if anyone was likely to wake me up to the idea of freedom it would probably be her. I had assumed, from the magazine ad, that Shawna was already a top model who might have been able to fit me in between jetting off to Paris and having her picture taken for the cover of Vogue. It came as
172
THE FRAME-UP
something of a surprise to find out that she was working as a waitress in a bar in La Jolla. It was no sleazy singles-bar, however, but a smart, fashionable watering-hole that, on the particular Friday when Tracy and I visited it, was crowded with yuppies. The media-world was out in force that night and you could have met anyone from a movie-producer to a mafioso the art being in not confusing the two. "Why on earth is she working here?" I asked Tracy, as we pounced on a couple of empty chairs. "She's between jobs," replied Tracy. "It's not all that unusual in her line of work. Not all models are superstars, you know, and neither are actresses. They work in places like this in the hope of being discovered. Look around you, Bill. There must be half a dozen waitresses working here and not a dog among them." "All looking for that big break?" "They sure don't work here for the money." "It strikes me as a pretty desperate way of going about it." "Maybe it is. Some of them make it though. Most don't." "So where's Shawna?" "Right there." I almost missed her. The crowd parted for a split-second and I caught a brief glimpse of a stunning girl with a tray in her hand. It was a very brief glimpse indeed but it was enough. "Phew!" I whistled. "Does she fulfill your requirements?"asked Tracy archly. "Or do we return to the pink Cadillac?" "That's one hell of a waste, if you ask me," I said. "Shawna, you should be in movies." "You sound like a producer," Tracy laughed. "In this place that's the same as saying'Hi, what's your star-sign?'. Anyway, the only movie that Shawna's likely to find herself starring in is a porno-movie. I'm not being bitchy, if that's what you think: it's just that she doesn't have much talent, poor girl." "You've seen her act?" "If that's what you call it. She's had a few bit-parts in her time." It wasn't long before Tracy introduced us but it turned out to be a very short introduction: Shawna was juggling with a full tray of drinks and was being constantly jostled away from us. It quickly became apparent that Tracy had already told her quite a lot about me and that she'd been expecting us. Too soon, she was gone but, as she passed our table fairly frequently throughout the evening, we managed to keep some sort of conversation going.
173
PRIVATE SCREENING
I soon realized that just about every eye in the bar male and female lingered on Shawna at some point. There was nothing particularly surprising in this: of the large number of beautiful women there, she was easily the most beautiful. What made me increasingly uncomfortable, however, was that this attention gradually extended to myself. 'What's so special about him?' I could see people thinking. 'Maybe he's some big-shot producer. Naw. Too young. A director, maybe? Haven't I seen his face in Billboard?' Only if they carried an article about bottles, I thought. I was starting to feel embarrassed. As long as I knew Shawna, this feeling of embarrassment never really left me. Wherever we went together, she was always the focus of attention. The trouble with Shawna was that she was just too beautiful, too perfect. Other women were always jealous of her looks and men always envied my good fortune. She was not only beautiful but intelligent too. And sensitive. Her only problem if indeed it could be called a problem was a general lack of direction in her life. She never seemed to know what she wanted. If she earned a lot of money from a modeling job or from playing some small movie part, she would blow it all within a few days and go back to waitressing until the next break came along. It was a lack of direction which also extended to her personal relationships. She could never seem to decide between me, her plastic surgeon or the latest 'producer' to suggest that she should be in movies. I had no doubt that, deep down, she cared just as much for me as I did for her but it wasn't easy to accept the fact that I was sharing her with other people. I couldn't imagine myself taking this sort of treatment from anyone else.
Although Dennis Lawrence suffered from what could be rather inadequately described as a 'weight-problem', this was not a problem that he failed to acknowledge or attempt to remedy. Over the years, he had invested in several appliances which were guaranteed to produce results 'if used regularly and as part of a diet and exercise program'. The snag was that he was far more interested in eating than in dieting and much preferred dozing on a couch to working out on a rowing machine. It was never long before the latest piece of callisthenic hardware was relegated from the bedroom to the garage. I decided that since the equipment was available it would be stupid not to take advantage of it. I got the exercise bike and the massage belt out of mothballs and dedicated myself to the task of eliminating the excess adipose tissue that had built up in recent months.
174
THE FRAME-UP
I soon discovered that the massage belt was much more effective if your stomach muscles were tensed while using it. Unfortunately, most people, including myself, tended to stand there passively and let the belt do all the work. Then, one day, as I was working out in the garage, I realized that when I used the exercise bike my stomach muscles tensed naturally and, from there, it didn't call for an exceptional feat of mental agility to come to the conclusion that the two machines could possibly be coupled together for a more effective treatment. I moved the massage machine behind the bike, set it in motion and began pedaling away while the belt ground away at my waistline. I'd probably covered several theoretical miles when Dennis appeared in the garage doorway. "What the...!" "Hi, Dennis. What do you think?" "Is this another of your creations?" I briefly outlined the principle and then suggested that Dennis tried it out for himself. Sadly, when he was seated on the exercise bike, the massage belt wouldn't reach round his waist and I could see that it needed to be adjustable to suit all sizes from minor beer-belly to seriously elephantine. "Well, you see what I mean anyway," I said at last. "It's a neat idea," admitted Dennis. "I always thought that massage belt was damn near useless. I must have stood there for hours and all I ever got was a sore patch. You going to file a patent on this?" "I thought maybe I would, yeah. fax some drawings to Jeims Deimen tomorrow and see what he thinks." But Dennis had not come to watch me exercise or listen to the latest Touzani brainchild. "I'd like you to sign this," he said. "What is it?" "Take a look." He handed me a five-page document which turned out to be an employment contract according to which CBA was to pay him a salary and a share of the profits. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Dennis had timed his presentation to a nicety. I was obviously intended to be physically and mentally tired: I would give the contract a brief glance, say "Sure, Dennis", scribble my John at the bottom and reap the consequences from that point on. "Sorry, Dennis. No can do." "Why the hell not?"
175
PRIVATE SCREENING
"I told you before," I said. "I need your resume so it can be appended to the contract. In the first place, it's standard procedure and, in the second place, my partners will certainly insist on it. I can't see what the problem is, to be honest with you. You give me your resume and give you your contract." Dennis snorted angrily and tossed the contract in the air. The loose pages fluttered to the garage floor. "Don't give me that shit!" he yelled. "Your partners don't care if you live or die let alone whether I give you a resume or not. I've earned this. Without me, Mel Hardman would have ruined you." He strode out of the garage and into the house. I could feel the vibrations of his stomping up the stairs. There were a few seconds of silence and then I heard, and felt, his descent. He swung into view again, wheezing heavily. There was something squat and black and ugly hanging from his hand. "You see this," he growled. It was a dark-blue automatic pistol. He waved it so close to my face I could read the manufacturer's name on the barrel. "See it?" I said. "It's pretty hard to miss, wouldn't you say?" Strangely enough, I wasn't frightened. I was certainly shocked but I knew that Dennis had no intention of pulling the trigger. "I also have a semi-automatic," he said, with a faint trace of pride. "I'm so happy for you," I murmured. "This is my way of keeping what's rightfully mine." It was an impressive demonstration by Dennis' standards but I was determined not to be intimidated. "You don't need a gun, Dennis," I said. "Oh no?" "No," I replied. "If you want to kill someone, just sit on them." Suffice to say, it was becoming imperative for me to move out of Dennis' place. Fortunately, it wasn't long before a house across the street became available. "You've got to buy it, Bill," said Dennis. "It's an excellent investment. In fact, if you ever want to sell it buy it back from you." It was typical of Dennis to make such a grandiose promise. Given his uncertain financial position, it was highly unlikely that he'd be able to buy even the garage, let alone the house. Luckily for me, however, Peter and other licensees had just paid their overdue royalty fees financial situation had improved substantially. I could now and
176
THE FRAME-UP
take back fifty thousand of SCATs seventy-five thousand dollar royalty that I had loaned to CBA three months earlier. "You'd better send a memo to your partners reminding them of the loan," advised Dennis. "You don't want them claiming your house one day." "I already told them," I replied. "Well, admittedly it was quite a while back but they know I'm licensing internationally. They're well aware that I have other sources of income." Dennis was less than impressed. "That sort of thing might have been okay in the past. You were a one man show then but sooner or later they're going to insist on seeing regular, written updates. What I'm advising is for your own protection. "Okay," I said. "Why don't you take care of that from now on? Send them a letter. Introduce yourself as my assistant and remind them of the seventy-five thousand dollar loan I made." "Will do." Dennis was no sadder to see me move out than I was to leave. He was also extremely relieved to see CBA's business leave his living room. This time, however, it was not going to follow me to my new home: it was time for CBA to graduate to an office. We spent a great deal of time looking for office space in the vicinity before we located a very attractive suite in a building constructed of bottle-green glass directly across from Dennis' old Wexford Capital office. Dennis was not so excited about the location: it made it too easy for him to run into his former customers. I left the completion of both transactions my new residence and CBA's first-ever offices in Dennis' hands and flew to France. airport My transatlantic flight touched down at Charles de on a Friday morning. I rented a car and drove across Paris to the Tour Montparnasse where Kamal and his father, Omar Laraqui, were expecting me. The meeting had been arranged several weeks in advance: Omar was an extremely busy man and was very hard to pin down in one place. He was considered to be the North African Rockefeller.Even the CIA had trouble keeping track of him. It was the first time I had met Omar Laraqui and as soon as I set eyes on him my father sprang to mind. Not only was there a slight physical resemblance between them but they had actually been childhood friends. By now, my father had retired from most of his activities: he still did a little legal work to keep himself from getting bored but, on
177
PRIVATE SCREENING
the whole, he had opted for an easy life. Omar, on the other hand, showed no signs of slowing down. Most of his activities were in the areas of real estate and civil engineering but now he was considering extending his interests into the industrial sector and he regarded my business as an entry into that field. His interest was flattering but I was harboring no illusions: I knew that he'd never have agreed to meet me had it not been for my father's influence. "I'm prepared to invest a lot of money in your project," he told me, "but it must be in the form of machinery and equipment and I must keep control of the facilities." Now that my patent had been issued in Morocco and SCAT had abandoned their license for developing countries, I agreed to license him the exclusive rights for North Africa. In return he was to finance a new plastics factory in Casablanca and to make a minimum investment of two million dollars. As well as giving me forty percent equity in the new company, he also accepted to let CBA conduct R D for free in the new facility. This part of the agreement was very important to me since van was no longer in the business and no other U.S. factory den would allow non-employees near their machines to monitor developments. Being the licensor of the technology, CBA was supposed to furnish technical support, but we ourselves did not have the facilities to provide it. I had counted on the SCAT company's conducting R D in the Far East to help CBA and its U.S. licensees. Now it seemed that this would have to be done out of France and Morocco. We decided to finalize the agreement in Morocco the following week where Mr Laraqui was to give me a guided VIP tour of his companies as well as of the site for our future factory. I was to be his personal guest. I left the meeting feeling very satisfied. Not only had I negotiated what seemed to be an advantageous deal but it amused me to think of how Rodney Commons would have jumped at the chance of meeting Mr Laraqui and would undoubtedly have tried to persuade him to invest heavily in the SCAT operation. My father's old friend might well have turned out to be the rich sheik he had been dreaming of. From Paris I drove south to Marseille where I had a meeting scheduled for the following Monday with the president of Orangina. As this was to be in two days' time and I didn't fancy the idea of kicking my heels in Marseille, which is not my favorite French city by a long chalk, I decided to make a detour and visit my aunt in a small, pic-
178
THE FRAME-UP
turesque town above the Rhone delta. There, I checked into a Best Western hotel for the night and planned to spend the next day, Saturday, wandering about the town. First I had to change some dollars. The post office, a huge building that looked more like a train station, was around the comer from the hotel. Its grandiose doors opened onto a truly cavernous interior. The polished marble floor would have been more at home in an Italian palazzo; a long counter swept round in a graceful semi-circle and whatever conversation was taking place between clerk and customer evaporated in the vastness long before it reached the ears of anyone else. "I guess stamps must be very popular round here," I muttered to myself. "I'd sure hate to see this place in the Christmas rush." The exchange counter was by the door and this was clearly a special service for foreign visitors since everyone else had to walk at least a hundred feet in any direction. There were several people in front of me, so I killed time by watching the other customers come and go. The place wasn't crowded probably there were many more customers than in the average post office but you could have put the entire crew of the U.S.S. Nimitz in there and still the place would have looked halfempty. I'd been standing in line for a few minutes when two of the most gorgeous brunettes I had ever seen entered the building and, with a rhythmic clacking of high-heels, made their way to the other side of the room. One of them was simply stunning: she had long brown hair and was wearing a red coat. A she passed in front of me, I caught a s glimpse of her profile and my eyes were rivetted from that moment on. The guy in front of me was now being served but I was facing in the opposite direction and hoping that he'd be a long time about it. The woman in red had soon finished her transaction and began to walk slowly back towards the door. Unfortunately it was now my turn to be served. "Monsieur?" said the cashier.
I glanced behind me. Had she reached the door yet? No, she was chatting to her friend and was still a few yards away. "I do not have all day, monsieur," said the cashier, with the unbridled scorn that only a French government employee can fully express. "I'd like to change two hundred dollars, please," I said. "No, make it twenty."
179
PRIVATE SCREENING
"I can make it anything you like, monsieur," said the cashier. "Are you sure you want twenty or shall I give you a bit more time to think it over?" "Change me twenty," I snapped. "And make it quick, please." The cashier snorted derisively and took the bills from my outstretched hand. I was wondering what my next move was going to be. How o n earth was I going to meet this beautiful girl? I wasn't exactly a dab hand at picking up girls in the street, and post offices were way outside my experience. The cashier handed me my money and I grabbed it impatiently. The woman in red was now only a few feet away. She would soon reach the door. I moved towards her not really intending to speak but more so that I could enjoy the sight of her for a few seconds longer. It was at that moment that her pen fell to the floor with a clatter. She bent down to pick it up; I crashed into her; she staggered slightly and leaned against her companion to regain her balance. I was confused and flustered: the collision had been her fault but I found myself apologizing profusely. "Nonsense," she said. "I was entirely to blame. I'm terribly sorry. It was clumsy of me." "No, no," I insisted. "I should have watched where I was going." "You're American, aren't you?" she said, as if that explained everything. "How did you guess?" I replied. "Your accent," she said. "Your French is very good but you do have an accent." We talked all the way through the door to her car outside. She asked me what I was doing in town. Was I there for pleasure or business? "If you have a drink with me," I said, tell you all about it." We walked back round the corner to my hotel and soon the three of us were sitting together in the bar. Her name was Myriam and her companion was her younger sister. Myriam had her own apartment and was working as a frustrated secretary she was just about to leave her employer. "Now that's what I call a coincidence," I said. "How good is your English?" Actually I didn't much care how good her English was but I was certainly experiencing a sudden urge to have a secretary - we'd see about her qualifications later.
180
THE FRAME-UP
It was now time to tell them what I did. I decided to short circuit what promised to be a lengthy process by running up to my room and returning with a few brochures and a sample of my collapsible bottle. They were both fascinated and could see the products selling well in France. Myriam was sufficiently astute to see that it would not be long before I established my business there and was certainly interested in being a part of it. In fact, I had already been thinking about taking office space in the South of France. It was central for Europe and offered the added attraction of a pleasant climate. We spent the weekend together. Her sister was studying to be a beautician in Paris and had to take the train that same day and this allowed Myriam and me to enjoy each other's company without a chaperone. It soon became obvious that Myriam liked me as much as I liked her and she was certainly the sort of girl who wouldn't have taken the trouble to tell me that unless it were true. Perhaps I represented something entirely different in her life - I was new, foreign, involved in a successful business and had caught her at a time when she was in need of a change. As for me, it was ironic that I had spent a large part of my youth in France where nineteen out of every twenty girls have dark hair and dark eyes and twenty out of twenty speak French and that I had abandoned the old world for the land of Mom, apple-pie and the all-American blonde blue-eyed teen- queen only to be captivated by a French-speaking brunette. Myriam worked for a firm of accountants. After our meeting on that Saturday in March, she never entered their office again. company was located in brand new offices in Aix-enThe Provence, just north of Marseille. was more than just one of France's most popular and long-established soft drinks: like Coca-Cola in America it was practicallya national institution. In reality, was only a part of a much larger company: Pernod-Ricard, the largest beverage company in France, that had founded its empire on the sale of absinthe and had extended it into soft drinks and Formula One motor-racing. show in ChicaI had met Orangina's chairman during the go and he had extended an invitation to come and visit him. He felt very confident about the concentrate applications for my bottles in the European market. In America children's fruit drink concentrates were most popular in powdered form, such as Kool Aid, but in Europe - probably because powder tended to be regarded as an unwholesome, synthetic product -
181
PRIVATE SCREENING
they preferred liquid syrups. Of course, many of these syrups were likely to be no less unwholesome and synthetic than powders but national preferences tend to defy all reasonable logic. Certainly the market share of this type of concentrate was much higher than in the U.S.: Burple would have stood a far better chance of conquering the market in Europe than in the United States. My meeting with the chairman of Orangina and his technical director was encouraging. Their interest was, however, in concentrated liquid juice with real juice content. "I don't know if you're aware of this," said the technical director, "but our group is the largest processor of citrus products in Europe. It's an adult market. If we adopt your design we need to stay with the same products." "Are you talking about refrigerated products or frozen products like Minute Maid in America?" The chairman, who up to this point had been taking a back-seat, raised his eyebrows in interest. "Is Minute Maid interested in your product by any chance?" he asked. "Yes," I replied. They've made several inquiries and they're taking my bottle seriously into consideration." The chairman chuckled drily. "Well," he said. "It would be quite amusing if Coca-Cola got your license for juice concentrates in America and we had yours here in France." "Why?" "Because we're the exclusive licensee of Coca-Cola here." "That's interesting," I said. "I really had no idea. Do you think this might lead to an orange-juice war?" "I certainly hope not," replied the chairman. "We already have a legal dispute regarding our marketing of Coke." I agreed to send them enough samples to conduct some tests and I left for Dijon, my next stop. I was puzzled as to why the chairman had revealed the existence of a major dispute between Coca-Cola and themselves: it seemed an odd thing to admit to a potential licensor. On the other hand, maybe this was already public knowledge in France, or about to become so. Whatever his motives were, it would certainly be intriguing to find myself between two giants that had helped shape the lives of so many people over the world. Dijon was a couple of hours away from Aix and was situated in the midst of lush farming country. There I was to visit Tesseire, the
182
THE FRAME-UP
largest producer of fruit syrups in France. My meeting turned out to be every bit as fruitful as their product. From what I had gathered from these meetings, it would not be long before European companies started to go for my expandable containers and my European office would finally begin to take shape. For Myriam this would mean an attractive and demanding job. I had slightly different plans: I offered her my services as her personal bodyguard and solemnly promised to guard it as closely as possible.
I had asked Myriam to meet me at the airport before we flew together to Morocco but I hadn't expected to see her parents there too: after all, it was only a one hour flight to Tangier and they must have driven for three hours to get there from their village in Lozere. On the other hand, I suppose they would have been pretty poor parents if they hadn't felt some concern at their daughter's giving up her job and winging off to North Africa in the company of a mysterious MoroccanAmerican businessman. If they did entertain any serious suspicions they certainly didn't show it when we met but I was sure they hadn't turned up at the airport to make sure that Myriam had remembered her passport.. "Do I really look like I'm in the white slave trade?" I asked her, as we settled into our seats. "Of course not," she replied. "For one thing you're too slim. You don't have a beard either. Everyone knows white-slavers are fat and bearded it's the main qualification for the job. Especially the beard." "Well, that lets Dennis out, I guess."
Tangier is located on the northern tip of Morocco. While geographically a North African city, it is still possible to see the southern coast of Spain and Gibraltar and, indeed, Tangier has always enjoyed a cosmopolitan reputation. Europe is so close at hand that I sometimes wondered why nobody had ever gotten round to putting a bridge over the Straits of Gibraltar. Probably one of the reasons was the vast pool of cheap labor available in Morocco and the fear of encouraging large numbers of migrant workers. For me, however, cheap labor was the chief attraction in establishing a factory there. With Europe moving towards a unified market where wages would not differ appreciably from country to country, the manual labor needed to produce the collapsible bottle would become prohibitively expensive. Morocco could become for Europe what Mexico was for the United States. Furthermore, again like Mexico, it offered
183
PRIVATE SCREENING
easy access to the northern markets: even without a bridge, Morocco was close enough to pose no great transport difficulties. When my sister and her husband decided to live there, they chose Tangier for its mild climate and its beautiful beaches. What was more, at the expense of a short boat-trip they could buy British goods in Gibraltar or Spanish goods in Algeciras. If the crossing was too rough, they had only to drive to nearby Ceuta - a Spanish enclave on the African continent to sample all the delights of Europe with none of the accompanying sea-sickness. My sister Nadia was a French teacher in a local high-school. She immediately struck up a friendship with Myriam: they were almost the same age and they even resembled each other physically. "She's a lovely girl, Bill," said Nadia, when we were finally alone together. "I think so too," I replied. "And I'm very happy for you," she continued. "There's just one thing." "What's that?" "Well," she began, quite clearly uncertain as to how to broach a difficult subject. "I never met Lisa or Andrew but I can tell you right now that as far as Mother's concerned you're a married man with a kid." "I'm not married though," I replied. "I know. So does Mother, come to that. But I think she regards it as a mere formality. Sooner or later she expects to be introduced to her daughter-in-law and her grandson." "Meaning I have to keep Myriam a secret, right?" "Right. At least until you've figured out a way of breaking the news." "Why do you think I didn't tell Mother and Father that I was corning?" I said. "I guessed what their reaction would be." "Then you guessed right," said Nadia My mother and father had had their own marital problems and had separated off and on over the years. When my father had a serious heart-attack a few years earlier, they decided to finally grow up and grow older together. They had a house by the beach to the south of Casablanca where my father dabbled in real estate when he was not watching the sun set over the Atlantic Ocean. After devoting a couple of days to rest and relaxation visiting the casbah and the luscious Moroccan restaurants, catching up on couscous - we hired a car and drove south to Rabat. Kamal owned a man-
184
THE FRAME-UP
sion on the outskirtsof town and his French wife, also, by the strangest of coincidences, called Myriam, had turned it into a museum of stained glass. We arrived there just in time to have lunch with them and it didn't take my Myriam and Kamal's Myriam long to strike up a friendship. After lunch, Kamal took me to the company headquarters. It occupied almost an entire block and was located above a shopping center which also belonged to them. It was just one of the many modern buildings they owned in the country, each of which hosted one of their companies. The Laraquis had thousands of employees, had built over eighty percent of the irrigation canals in Morocco and were specialized in the construction of bridges, highways and dams. Kamal took us to a luxurious house by the beach and invited us to stay there as long as we liked. We had servants to fulfill our every whim; there was even a chauffeur to drive us around and polish the and the Mercedes. Aside from all this opulence, the house was perfectly situated for commuting to Rabat and Casablanca. The greatest achievement of Kamal's company, in my opinion at least, was the Residence El Manar: a high-rise block which dominated the skyline of Casablanca. It had a shopping mall on the ground floor and a breathtaking view from the top floor. Taking up the entire seventeenth floor was a penthouse with a fifteen yard swimming pool. "This is the highest pool in the whole of Africa," said Kamal. "If we reach an agreement, we'll offer you the place rent free." We'd already worked out most of the details for the licensing agreement but now I wanted to make a small change: he was going to have to make me a special deal on this place. While all this was very impressive, not to say overwhelming for Myriam and me, simply being in each other's company was undoubtedly the best experience of the trip. I had known Myriam for only a few days but, thanks to the generosity of the Laraqui family, we felt that we'd been together for much longer. Our stay in Morocco had a honeymoon air about it it felt more like a luxurious holiday than the serious business-trip it was. To conclude it, Kamal invited us to stay at one of his villas in Marrakesh from where we were able to take a skiing trip in the Atlas Mountains. The honeymoon atmosphere persisted right up to the moment when we stepped onto the plane which took us back to France. I'd have liked to have stayed longer in Morocco but time was running short. In a few days I would have to fly back to the United States:
185
PRIVATE SCREENING
I had an Apex non-refundable, non-transferable ticket which gave me no room to change my plans at the last minute. It was ironic that in spite of the success of the collapsible bottle, its inventor was still obliged to fly economy class. Back at Myriam's apartment in Nimes, she suggested that I took my rented car back to Avis and use her little Austin from that point on. This was not only for reasons of economy - despite the bright future that she saw for the company she also saw the need to cut corners in what was essentially a one-man operation - but it was also because she was now beginning to feel a part of the collapsible bottle circus and no longer regarded it merely as a potential employer. This had the effect of welding us together even more solidly: we were now sure that we wanted to stay together as much as possible. Myriam very much wanted me to visit her family at their village in but our first priority was to go to the American Consulate in Marseille and apply for a tourist visa for her. To our amazement her application was turned down point-blank. "But why?" I asked the visa officer. He gave me a knowing look. "Mr Touzani," he said. "If I thought that Miss Gilles here just wanted to visit the Grand Canyon and the Statue of Liberty and then go home again, I'd give her a visa here and now. But it looks to me as if she'd prefer to stay there on a permanent basis." "Ah," I replied. "There is an alternative," he added. "She can apply for a special fiancee visa. I can't issue it on the spot though it'll take about thirty days." We didn't have thirty days. I felt a deep depression invading me: was this going to be a replay of all the problems that Birgit had experienced? The visa officer obviously detected my disappointment. "It's only a thirty day wait," he said. "It'll be worth it in the long run she'll be able to stay in the States indefinitely and she'll be allowed to work legally." From the American Consulate we drove directly to Nimes and from there we took a narrow winding road into the mountains of the Massif Centrale. It took us three hours to reach the village of Villefort - long enough for us to decide that we wanted to get married. Villefort was a small village with one main street, which appeared to lead up the mountain to nowhere, and one main square called the
186
THE FRAME-UP
Place du Carrefour. Translated, this means Square of the Crossroads but there was no crossroads that I could see. The Gilles cafe was the biggest in town: the other one was a much smaller business that only opened a few hours a day to refresh the trickle of tourists who insisted on visiting Villefort for no apparent reason that I could see. It was a typically French cafe-tabac with a small restaurant area, a couple of pinball machines, a kiosk selling cigarettes results and a wide terrace and chewing gum, a wall chart for the outside where tables, chairs and parasols would be set out in the summer months. It was a family-run business. Myriam's parents, Andre and Monique, served the customers themselves and were sometimes helped out by Myriam's younger sister Valerie. I was welcomed by Andre with the warmth typical of southern France and, after drinking a cup of coffee with him, Myriam and I got back in the car and drove the five hundred yards or so to where the Gilles family had built their new, modern house on a hillside behind the village. Myriam wasted no time in leading me straight up to her own room which, as luck would have it, had been designed to accommodate two people. I was no quite so sure myself, however. "Er...Myriam?" I said, looking askance at her. "Don't you think your parents might object to our sharing the same bed?" She laughed. "Why should they?" she replied. "This may be an out-of-the-way place but we're not all that much behind the times here. Besides, considering the time we've spent together, I don't suppose they think we've been sleeping in separate beds." "All the same," I demurred. "And we're engaged, aren't we?" she added. "Well, they don't know about that yet, but they soon will." They soon did. We were having our after-dinner coffee when Myriam suddenly said: "And now Bill has something to tell you all." "I do?" I said. "I mean, yes, I do." I wasn't used to such formal announcements but I comforted myself with two thoughts: we had already gotten dinner out of the way so there was no risk of anyone losing their appetite and hopefully it it would notseem so strange when Myriam and I went off to bed together. "Mr and Mrs Gilles," I said. "I'd like to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage."
187
PRIVATE SCREENING
It was a simple formula but it worked wonders. Andre and Monique stood up and embraced their daughter and then embraced me. Come to think of it, quite a bit of embracing went on. I was very relieved to have gotten the announcement off my chest but I must have looked a little uncomfortable all the same since Andre, with typical French diplomacy and aplomb, suddenly said: "I suppose you were worried that we might have objected. After all, you haven't known each other for very long, eh? You shouldn't have concerned yourself I've known of many cases where two people fell in love and married within a few days. There was once a Peruvian doctor here - I can't remember his name, off hand he came over to Paris for a couple of days, met the daughter of a friend of ours and they flew back to Lima to get married. These things happen there's nothing strange about it. At least you won't be taking Myriam off to South America. California doesn't sound such a bad place." Andre, like most educated Frenchmen, had seemed to know exactly what to say. Also like most Frenchmen, he was a pragmatist. He seemed to have n o difficulty in accepting my North African origins in spite of the fact that, as a young man, he had fought in the Algerian War while my father had been a leading light in the Moroccan independence movement a terrorist in French eyes and had been imprisoned by Andre's people for two years as a result. My father had finally been arrested on his wedding day - which lent a further touch of irony to the situation. I talked to Andre a lot over the following few days. As progressive as his views were on the question of his daughter's premarital relationships, his opinions on political issues were firmly based on traditional French lines. As far as he was concerned, France was, or certainly ought to have been, the third major world power after the United States and the U.S.S.R.. As such, it's role in the world was, to say the least, nonaligned. He was particularly vitriolic about what he considered to be the excesses of American foreign policy and the inroads that American culture was making into traditional French life. To a certain extent, Andre's own family exemplified this situation. Myriam, the oldest daughter, still reflected the age-old values of French society. Not that she was a traditionalist in the accepted sense in many ways she was very modern in her outlook - but her interests lay chiefly in cultural pursuits. She was fond of music, literature, philosophy and shared her father's interest in politics and current affairs. Sometimes I was almost in awe of how much she knew but I soon came to realize that we complimented each other perfectly. My education
188
THE FRAME-UP
had been almost purely scientific and technical and my expertise lay in areas that she knew little or nothing about. She had been educated according to a stringent, conservative French system which placed a heavy emphasis on cultural achievements and which had not changed radically since it was first established under Napoleon. In contrast to Myriam, her young sister Valerie was not so very different to an American teenager. She was far less interested in the philosophy of Claude Levi-Strauss than in the latest album by Michael Jackson. Although she did try to demonstrate that rock music did not begin and end with America - usually by playing French rock at a volume that defied belief Valerie was firmly entrenched in a lifestylethat extended from Tokyo to Buenos Aires and beyond. One morning, shortly after my arrival in Villefort, I was relaxing in the cafe, discussing the history of France and its former colonies with Andre, when I noticed a Federal Express van outside in the square. Back in San I wouldn't have wasted a second look on it but in this sleepy French village its presence was incongruous. Who in Villefort had business of such urgency that it called for the services of Federal Express? and I stared at the van with curiosity. The driver had stepped out. He held a package in one hand and a document which obviously bore the address of the package's destination in the other. After pacing up and down the square for a few minutes, he finally stopped a passerby and asked directions - which was what he would have been welladvised to have done in the first place. A finger was raised in the the driver said a word of thanks and set off in our direction of the direction. I turned back to Andre. "Federal Express?" He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. It was clear he wasn't expecting anything and that could mean only one thing: Dennis had sent me the power of attorney I had asked him to draft. I needed to give Dennis power of attorney for two reasons: firstly so that he could close the deal on my new house and secondly to enable him to transfer money from CBAs bank account to my own and thence to that of the mortgage company. We certainly didn't want the money to go from CBA directly to the mortgage company as it would have been too easy to interpret that as a company purchase and it might have exposed me to accusations of misappropriation of funds. Sure enough, the Federal Express driver entered. "Is this the Gilles cafe?" he asked.
189
PRIVATE SCREENING
Andre nodded. "I have a package for a Mr William Touzani." I signed for it, opened the package on the bar and began to read through its contents. The documents ran to several pages and, as I read them, it soon became clear that Dennis had not stopped at the purchase of my house. In addition he wanted me to give him the power to sell my general partner shares, to sell the company altogether, to license whom he pleased, to buy or sell all my property and, in short, to conduct all the business that I was presently conducting myself. He wanted the rights to everything I had worked for, to everything that I was. Not satisfied with merely representing me, he also wanted to be me. I laid the documents aside and sat in stunned silence. This was far better than using his automatic on me. After all, homicide is usually a punishable offense. To add insult to injury there was a postscript asking me to sign the documents immediately and forward them to him by Federal Express so that he could complete the transaction on the house. Finally, I broke my silence to tell Myriam and Monique. I think they were every bit as stunned as I was. "lt's unbelievable!" snorted "The guy must think you're senile! Either that or he's senile himself!" "If he is, it's pretty premature," I replied. "No, but he must think you have no common sense whatsoever," continued Andre. "He's asking you to give him everything! You know what I think? I think that as soon as you get back to California the salaud will put a couple of bullets in your head and that will be that! He'll have the lot then and you won't be in any condition to protest." "I can't understand why he should insult my intelligence in this way," I said, sadly. "It's obvious, my friend," said Andre, smiling bitterly. "The has no respect for you. He probably thinks Myriam has gone to your head and you can't think straight any more." "Well, he's very much mistaken," I replied. It certainly provided a change from our usual conversations, although as is by no means extraordinary when talking to an educated Frenchman the subject immediately developed into a springboard for a more lengthy and abstract discussion of what it was, exactly, made the American mind tick. "Americans are fine," declared Andre, "as long as large sums of money don't enter the equation. If they do, watch out."
190
THE FRAME-UP
"Listen, Andre," I replied. "You're talking to an American." "Sure I am," he said. "A first generation American. A MoroccanAmerican." "Is there a difference?" "Of course there's a difference! You may have lived there for many years but you can't deny your roots, you know. You spent your formative years in quite another culture. You're not alone: the United States is full of national minorities who still cling to their old language and their old ways. And I'm not just talking about first generation immigrants either! The Americans might like to think of their country as a melting-pot but considerable parts of it have not yet dissolved." "So how can you talk about typical Americans then?" "There's a common denominator. There always is. Look at the French. You may say that the French behave like this or like that but we are a nation of some sixty million people and we sure as hell do not all think the same way. If we do, who voted for Mitterand?" "In other words, human nature is the same the whole world over," I said. "It's an over-simplification but there is an element of truth in it. As a general rule of thumb, the only people you can really trust are the dead." I would have been happy to have talked to Andre until the end of the world if it meant being able to stay with Myriam. Sadly, my time in Europe had come to an end and I had to return to the States. I almost began to hate America for that. I did not want to return and yet my business there made it mandatory for me to do so especially after receiving those documents from Dennis. I had to leave Myriam behind because the American immigration authorities in ironic contrast to the years when they had appealed to the rest of the world to give them its downtrodden masses seemed intent on keeping her out of the country. Our drive to the airport in Marseille was a tearful affair and our parting was one of the hardest things in my life. I left Myriam in France to sort out the mountain of paperwork needed to satisfy immigration requirements and I returned to the United States to hire the services of an immigration attorney.
191
11 . KEVIN
I spent much of the thirteen-hour return flight to Los Angeles reflecting on what had been accomplished to date. I could recall several published articles in which the collapsible bottle had been regarded as ingenious but essentially low-tech. They were probably fairly accurate evaluations. I was well aware that the bellows configuration had existed for many hundreds of years and a latching bellows in particular, combining longer and shorter sections, had been used since the beginning of the century for anything from flexible straws to Japanese toys. Even its application for containers seemed to have been explored long before I'd arrived at it. Since filing my first patent, I had come across hundreds of inventions incorporating the same concept for one use or another. In my initial enthusiasm and naivity, and in spite of Jeims warnings to the contrary, I had thought that I was inventing something as fundamental as the wheel. My investigations soon proved me wrong and I had come to realize that the real challenge did not lie in the existence of the technology but in its applications. However, my licensees, and their investors, had paid large sums of money to gain access to the technology and their only form of security was a patent number, the validity of which was, they assumed, beyond question. They would certainly not have hesitated to sue me if they had even so much as suspected that I had deliberately withheld evidence to the contrary. Dennis Lawrence welcomed me warmly. It was not a warmth that was reciprocated. He had missed me - or so he said and as if to lend credence to that improbable notion he led me directly to a large pile of mail that had accumulated since my departure two weeks earlier and smiled benevolently as I sifted through it. First there were several packages from Jeims Deimen containing the results of the examinations by both the Canadian and the Euro-
192
THE FRAME-UP
pean patent offices. I had been anxiously awaiting this information for several months as I had long known that it would make the difference between CBA conducting a legitimate or an illegitimate business. Dennis followed my every move. Whenever I looked up n o matter how briefly - I saw his intent expression, the faint smile hovering around his lips. I felt relieved: Dennis had already been through my mail and whatever news Jeims Deimens packages brought had t o be good. It turned out to be completely the opposite. The Canadian patent office had discovered that 'my' collapsible bottle had been patented by Beatrice Foods in the U.K. at least two years before I had filed for mine. The European office had come up with several others including, most disturbingly of all, a French patent using exactly the same latching bellows described in my own. As if matters could possibly be made worse, my third patent for hollow articles using the U-shaped hinge had been totally rejected by the U.S. office. Through blurred eyes I could see Dennis still smiling. I wondered numbly how he could meet such a reversal with so much indifference, not to say satisfaction. If my U.S. patent for collapsible bottles was illegal then so was CBAs very existence. If CBA ceased to exist then both he and I were out of a job. And then suddenly I realized what Dennis' smile meant. It meant 'What are you going to give me to keep my mouth shut?'. Fortunately, I could see that all was not entirely lost. Between my own patents and these examples of 'prior art' there were significant differences which meant that they were not completely unenforcable. We had, after all, patented manufacturing techniques and attachments for the containers for which we could still claim exclusivity. On the other hand, there was absolutely no doubt that all the bottles we had developed to date made use of foreign technologies that were public domain in the United States. I sat back on the couch and gazed at my reflection in the mirror opposite. Was this the end? Was it the beginning of the end? Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dennis put his hand over his mouth and cough like an English butler trying to attract his master's attention. I glanced up at him and saw that his smile had been replaced by a look of concern. "Bill, I hope you realize that customers have paid nearly a million dollars to which the company has n o right at all. That might well have been okay up to now but if we continue t o accept money, knowing what we know, it would be nothing less than fraud. And fraud o n a big scale."
193
PRIVATE SCREENING
"I know it," I said. "But you must agree that this is hardly our fault. I didn't expect the U.S. Patent Office to halt their search as soon as they came up against something written in a foreign language. Maybe I could've understood if it had been in Serbo Croat or Mongolian, but French?I'm going to have to submit this new evidence to them and ask for a re-examination. That could take quite a few months." "That's up to you," said Dennis. "You're the inventor. But I do have a recommendation." I might have known. "What is it?" I asked. "At this point, I think you ought to incorporate CBA. The company owns enough molds to produce fifty million containers a year. At an average of as dollar a container that still means of pretty respectable operation." "You mean compete with my own licensees? They'd never stand for it. Frankly, I wouldn't blame them either." "What if they ask for their money back?" countered Dennis. "Worse than that, they could sue you for fraud. You'd end up fighting for your life." Although the news had shattered me, it hadn't exactly taken me by surprise. I'd had some degree of doubt about the validity of my first patent ever since I set eyes on the imported Japanese bottle in Peter office at Shasta and that doubt had been increased by the frank exchange of views which had taken place later at Mitsui's headquarters in New York. Reassurance had come only from the fact that nobody least of all, it seemed Peter or Mitsui themselves seemed unduly perturbed. Even now, I could comfort myself with the thought that the results of the examinations carried out by these patent offices did not constitute a final refusal: we still had time to reply to them and amend our claims. Certainly, however, this news had one concrete and final result: it gave Dennis the leverage he needed to ask a price for his silence. His silence - or rather his cooperation was not mandatory: our licensees had gone much too far in their business to be deterred by the initial findings of some foreign examiners. The most harm that he could really have done, at that point, would have been to sow seeds of discontent which would have made life troublesome for me and could certainly have prejudiced any eventual law-suit. If this was his game, I sure wasn't going to play ball. Besides, his idea of incorporating CBA was a non-starter in any case: I had raised it directly with Dr Thomas on several occasions and he had always been quick to dismiss it.
194
THE FRAME-UP
"We could always start a new corporation," Dennis persisted. "We could license the Hollow Articles patent through it and use it as the marketing arm for CBA's own products. That way you'd at least be able to compete with CBA's licensees in the open market and your personal shebang, liability would be protected: even if you lost the nobody would ever be able to take away your house and car." "Why don't you just spit it out, Dennis?" I snapped. "You want a corporation so that you can demand a percentage of the shares. That's it, isn't it?" "You're getting very cynical in your old age," observed Dennis. "Is that a denial or just a compliment?" "What's the point of denying it?" he said. "I'm not in business for the good of my health." "That's refreshingly honest of you. So what's your price?" "Well, in view of the present circumstances, I'd say I was taking a considerable risk, wouldn't you? And since we'd be relying entirely on our marketing and managerial skills to be profitable, I think I'd require at least twenty-five percent." "Twenty-five percent, huh?" "At least." I paused. "Well," I said at last. "I'm going to need some time to think this over. In the meantime, as you know, Dale Gruberlee is incorporating the Amazing Bottle operation in Sacramento. I was to keep forty percent equity in it but I could assign ten percent to you, to be going on marketing arm." with, and we could also use the company as "Until we form our own corporation, you mean?" have to think that over." "Like said, Shortly after I received this warm welcome home, Amazing Bottle store was incorporated and Dennis became the fourth partner with the ten percent equity I had promised. The company was licensed by CBA to market reusable containers, paying the same royalty that Hardman and Interstate Marketing were to have paid. As the licensor, I could easily have fixed a more advantageous royalty but I had no desire to have my partners accuse me of conflict of interest by favoring a company in which I held equity and they did not. It seemed the best way of keeping Dennis Lawrence on the leash: if he now carried out his threat to reveal that had been the victim of a conspiracy, Amazing Bottle Inc. would abruptly cease to exist and so too would his income.
195
PRIVATE SCREENING
The information from Jeims Deimen was not the only bad news I came home to: also among the pile of correspondence was the official complaint from the SCAT partners. According to that, I was accused of inducing them to sign their contract by means of false verbal promises. I thought this was pretty ironic in view of the fact that I had never met one of their financial backers until the time came to put my signature to the document. Moreover, the contract ran to some fifty pages, had taken several weeks to write and followed a letter of intent which I had given to Rodney Commons thirty days earlier. In view of the time-span alone, it would Machiavelli to have sustained an adequate verbal have taken inducement for so long and I didn't possess a tenth of the skill and cunning it would have required. As specious as these charges were, they were music to Dennis' ears. As far as he was concerned, they proved once and for all that his services were indispensable and that, as much as I disliked him, I could not live without him. My home in La Jolla was located at the end of a row of stone houses. It was less than ten years old when I bought it and was in first-class condition. There was a large, spacious living and dining room, a kitchen at the front and two bedrooms upstairs. Out back was a two-car garage. The condominium was under security surveillance and its residents shared access to a magnificent swimming pool. By East Coast standards, the house was small but in La Jolla, California, it was considered a spacious property and had a price-tag to match. Since my return from France, I had been talking to Myriam several times a week to keep her spirits up. I was also sounding her out on her choice of furniture. I wanted to have the place completely ready and comfortable to live in by the time she arrived. I had a new home and I had the money to furnish it: it ought to have been an enjoyable and carefree time but there were doubts nagging away at me. I couldn't seem to escape the feeling that the house might not be in my possession for very long. There was a sense of desperation in my resolve to enjoy it while I could. The source of my worries was, as always, Dennis Lawrence. Contrary to our plan, h e had transferred the money needed to buy the house directly from account to the mortgage company and then blamed me for not having signed and returned the power of attorney he had sent me in France. I was painfully aware that this would leave
196
THE FRAME-UP
me wide open to allegations of misappropriation of funds. Dennis, typically, had a solution for this problem too. "You're worrying yourself for nothing," he said. "Listen, Bill. You advanced CBA seventy-five grand, right? With the cost of the house, the furniture and the outstanding patent bills that the SCAT people enter it in have dumped on you, you're just about breaking even. the books as the repayment of a loan to CBA. Trust me. I'm an accountant - I know how to handle that." I had no option but to take him at his word. Now that I finally had my own place, Lisa agreed to let Andrew come down and stay with me for a whole week every month. The first time he visited, he looked a bit like a puppy sniffing about, trying to decide whether he liked it or not. Finally, he gave it his seal of approval. "That's a relief," 1 said to him, as he scrambled onto the sofa and began to use it as a trampoline. "For a minute there I thought I'd have to sell the place already." The fact that he hadn't seen me for several weeks didn't seem to register with him he acted just as if we'd parted the day before. It was more difficult for me: every visit brought with it new skills that he had mastered, new words that he had learned, and, if I were rash enough to treat him as a baby, he was quick to point out that he was now two years old and had no further need of kid's stuff and that if there was a baby in the house it certainly wasn't him. When Andrew was back in Sacramento with his mother, Shawna took over his baby-sitting duties. Suddenly the idea of domesticity seemed to be attracting her. She was perfectly aware that I was very much in love with Myriam and that it was only a matter of time before she came to live with me but her visits were becoming increasingly frequent and it seemed clear that she was having second thoughts about the lack of commitment she had shown to our relationship. I don't think it was entirely coincidence that many Californian girls were beginning to hanker after stable, long-term relationships. The AIDS virus was rapidly putting an end to the rampant permissiveness which had typified Californian life since the 1960s and, while I might not have been able to offer Shawna the career opportunities promised by the legion of 'movie producers' who usually pursued her, it was pretty obvious to me that I represented safety and ironically enough - stability. Unfortunately for her, she had left it too late.
197
PRIVATE SCREENING
At this point my life-style seemed to have taken a one hundred and eighty degree turn in a matter of only a few weeks. When I had left for Europe I'd had no home, n o office and n o girlfriend and the person whom I cared most about Andrew had been hundreds of miles away. Now, amazingly, I had all those things. Predictably, Dennis was less than enthusiastic about my change of fortunes. As usual, he wanted a piece of the action. I don't know future was uncertain or whether it was because he realized that whether, come what may, he saw himself sticking it out to the bitter end but he embarked on his own, apparently quite gratuitous, spending spree. First he refurbished the living room of his house to the tune of ten thousand dollars. Next, having condemned his Cadillac as no longer road worthy, he bought himself a brand-new Lincoln town car with leather interior and every possible extra for about thirty thousand dollars. For another ten thousand, he purchased a computer system and software and, as a final touch, he had his office fitted out with high-quality furniture, not the least of which was a large, leather couch. There was no doubt about it now: Dennis would have to go. In recent years I had been through many unpleasant situations but, no matter how bad things had gotten, I had always managed to preserve my pride and my self-respect. Now, it seemed, I had no alternative but to swallow them - and bite my tongue at the same time. In the beginning, my confidence in the potential of the collapsible bottle had been such that I imagined it would virtually sell itself. I had thought that the large corporations would instantly snap it up and that, by their very nature, they would be fully equipped to develop and market it. We certainly appeared to be heading in that direction for a few months. Finally, of course, it had ended in disappointment and my partners' response had been to shut me out. That had been all it took to throw me into the arms of speculators and wheeler-dealers. It was, however, those same speculators and wheeler-dealers who had had saved my dream from coming to an abrupt end. rescued the business from extinction by developing our first marketable bottles. The legal dispute which eventually ensued had been my first introduction to the ugly side of the business. I had prevailed but had left a curse on me which took the tangible, the highly-tangible, form of Dennis Lawrence. I was now faced with two threats: from without and within. The exterior threat came from the smaller companies with which I was now forced to deal. The large multinationals would never have considered
198
THE FRAME-UP
taking us to court since they were well aware of our limited financial resources and knew they could never hope to receive substantial damages. To a smaller company we appeared big enough to make a law-suit an attractive proposition. Why work hard to commercialize the collapsible bottle when suing its inventor could provide a short-cut to fame and fortune? The interior threat posed by Dennis Lawrence was concomitant with this. Just when it seemed that one legal wrangle was out of the way and I would have no further need of his hard-bitten troubleshooting abilities, another law-suit would materialize which made his presence useful once again. He was, however, proving to be a knife which cut both ways. CBAs suite consisted of four separate offices, a conference room, a large lobby with reception-desk and a computer and copier room. Perhaps this might be thought excessive in view of the small number of staff, but we expected to expand rapidly and hire additional help. As I was away from the office for much of the time, I allowed Dennis to hire and fire secretaries more or less as he thought fit. Apart from Dennis, the only other employee who kept some consistency in the office was Shawna who worked part-time for us as a marketing associate. Dennis didn't dare fire her as he knew how close the two of us were and, indeed, he didn't want to lose her either he very much enjoyed the private lessons he was giving her on marketing techniques. At the very least, Shawna was valuable to the company as a business representative especially during conventions. In fact she had decided that this was exactly the sort of job she had been looking for: one which enabled her to combine her obvious charms and her more practical skills. Tracy didn't have the chance to enjoy our new premises for long. She could no longer stand working with Dennis Lawrence which came as no great surprise to me and left after only a few weeks. Since she was part of my family, Dennis regarded her very much as a spy in his camp and was constantly hiding away bank-statements and other documents. He wasn't sorry to see her go and immediately hired a male secretary by the name of Jim. Jim's period of employment by CBA lasted until he borrowed Dennis' Cadillac for an errand and, having forgotten to check the oil, did a fairly effective job of burning out its engine. He was replaced by Rebecca, a young, attractive girl in her early twenties who was quick to reveal to anyone who was interested, and several who weren't, that she was a Jehova's Witness. Rebecca was softly-spoken and intelligent and
199
PRIVATE SCREENING
dressed very conservatively: I never even saw her in tailored pants, let alone jeans or shorts. I had come across Jehova's Witnesses practically all my life but had never let them step inside my door, much less offer one a job. They always seemed nice, harmless people, if a little too persistent on occasions. I had accepted their literature graciously only to deposit it immediately in a trash-can. Now that I knew Rebecca and saw her on an almost daily basis, I was beginning to regret my old behavior. From now on I would show her coreligionists a little more consideration. Although I had certainly never classed myself as an atheist, I had never given much thought to religion. I had more than enough on my plate just handling my daily affairs without bothering myself about what was going to happen after I died. It soon became apparent in my conversations with Rebecca that what happened after you died represented one of the fundamental differences between the Jehova's Witnesses and other religions. For them there are n o Asgards, no Indralokas, no Elysian Fields, no Pearly Gates rising from some distant cloud, eternally guarded by a disgruntled and critical Saint Peter. The Jehova's Witnesses believe that you return to a paradise on earth. "You mean to tell me," I said, "that that's all I've got to look forward to? I don't even like it here now and I'm going to come back here after I die?" "It won't be the same," she explained. "It'll be a real paradise where people will live in harmony. No crime, no jealousy, only happiness." "I guess you mean that we'll live a bit like the Amish do now," I said. "Farming? In touch with nature?" "Exactly," she said. "Hum," I said. "I just hope they all use collapsible bottles, that's all." Little by little, Rebecca's religion began to make me feel profoundly guilty. Wasn't I too preoccupied with material goals? Had I always behaved kindly and generously to those around me? Given that there was surely more to existence than profit-margins and deals, wasn't it about time I started taking religion a bit more seriously? I couldn't honestly say I had always taken the Jehova's Witnesses completely seriously but you could hardly argue that their Church had sprung up overnight and it did have millions of adherents. 1 liked Rebecca and she liked me. At the very least she must have found me quite a pleasant contrast with Dennis Lawrence. Finally I agreed to accept some literature about her religion. This turned out to be a mistake. I expected to receive a couple of pamphlets but instead
200
THE FRAME-UP
she showered me with a complete library. I promised to read some of it, and I did, but I still took a lot of convincing before I agreed to go to her temple in La Jolla for the Sunday service. The temple was located o n a hill overlooking the ocean a n d looked more like a judge's residence than a house of God. While there was nothing fancy about the building there was plenty fancy about me: I was wearing my best clothes and sported a tie for the first time i n several weeks. As soon as I walked inside I was immediately intercepted by two suited individuals and escorted to where Rebecca and her mother were sitting. I was obviously expected. I was impressed with the simplicity and clarity of the service. I was handed a n illustrated pamphlet which set out exactly what the service was going t o be about a n d what parts of the Bible were being referred to. I had been to religious services with Lisa and Andrew and had found myself completely lost but now I found everything very easy to understand. I can't say that I left the temple feeling like a new man but I certainly hadn't been confused by what went on in there. business If 1987 was Mel's year in as much as he influenced in every way - for better or worse, 1988 was to be the year of Peter His company, Sundale, was now one year old and the food drink Burple was being sold in several midwestern states. He had managed to capture at least fifty percent of the market in every new territory he entered. Peter's strategy was to do things by numbers, like the big boys. He sold controlling shares to VIP, a venture capital group in San Francisco, for several million dollars and the right to remain as president. With the exposure that Burple was receiving via trade shows, news reports, the national TV marketing from Popeet and, most importantly, the introduction of the Kool Aid bottle, Peter had little difficulty in raising capital. But his success was not without its problems: while it was undoubtedly beneficial as far as raising capital and encouraging investment were concerned, his competitors were feeling increasingly threatened and were starting to put the squeeze on him. He was obliged to stay price-competitive even though his packaging cost more than that of the opposition. He ended up subsidizing the difference and relying on subsequent high-volume sales to eventually make him profitable. was already testing the feasibility of our bottle for its milk concentrates, Unilever for detergents and Minute Maid for one hundred percent juice concentrates. Although this was undoubtedly
201
PRIVATE SCREENING
promising, of all of the multinational companies, only General Foods had decided to launch a Kool Aid expandable bottle on the market and a freeze-dried ice-cream for institutions. While several big names seemed to be choosing for the collapsible bottle, only Burple had put everything they had into it. It was their only source of income. I began to wonder why the larger corporations seemed to be dragging their feet and it was only after talking to employees of these companies that I finally found out. To put it briefly, they were using Burple as a guinea pig. Why invest huge amounts of money in educating the public about the advantages and use of the collapsible bottle when the whole thing might turn out to be a passing fad in any case? Far better to let Burple do the job for them. If the product appeared to be gaining significant consumer acceptance and was showing itself to be profitable then they could launch their own products at a fraction of the cost and with minimal risk. CBA too had a lot riding on Peter "If I should go out of business," he said to me once, "no one else will want to hear about your bottle ever again." When Peter asked for an early meeting at his San Francisco office in March, I knew exactly what it was going to be about. He wanted his royalties reduced. When I had first licensed him, neither of us had had any idea of the worth of the new package. We had known from the start that the royalty fee would have to be adjusted as the conditions warranted. From my own point of view, there were no other companies waiting in the wings to take over his application and the loss of would have meant starting from scratch. On top of this, Peter Peter was a good friend and if he said that he had problems you could be sure that that was so. Dennis Lawrence asked to accompany me to the meeting. "They'll probably ask us to redraft a new agreement," he said, "and I'd like to be there to help you negotiate it. Maybe they have other things in mind too." "Other things?" I replied. "Well, suppose his investors know just how unenforcable patents are. Suppose they threaten to take legal action. You'll need that witness I was telling you about." "Meaning you, I suppose." know anyone else?" By now Dennis had had me over a barrel so often I was getting curvature of the spine.
202
THE FRAME-UP
"I'm not going to be your accomplice any more!" I retorted. "Peter knew that there were imported products on the market a long time before you happened along and he still thought it was worth the risk." "Maybe he did," said Dennis, softly, "but I can guarantee you that his backers won't. At a rough estimate I'd say they've probably invested about five or six million dollars in the project so far and he won't see another cent if they get hold of the sort of information we have here in La Jolla." Reluctantly I agreed to let Dennis attend the meeting and consoled myself with the thoughts that we would most likely have to redraft the agreement and that Dennis had nothing better to do anyway. In San Francisco, Peter introduced us for the first time to two of his investors. Tom and Ed left no stone unturned in their efforts to convince us that, unless CBA lowered its minimum royalties from seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars to four hundred and fifty thousand, they would withdraw from the project altogether. They bombarded us with flow-charts and covered the blackboard with figures and diagrams to illustrate their past performances and future projections. The message was quite clear: it was very much a take-it-or-leave-it deal with little or no room for negotiation. "But gentlemen," I said. "don't tell me that after having spent millions of dollars you'd simply pack up and walk away if we don't accept your reduction." "It took me two years to find out what we can or can't afford, Bill," said Peter. "For us, CBA is a company that contributes nothing to this business. The money that we give you is dead. If we take it and reinvest it can only increase our chances of surviving and that it in would be as much to your advantage as ours, in the long run." We finally reached a compromise. I agreed to have the three hundred thousand dollars difference deferred for two years. Peter had yet another objective in mind. He wanted the exclusive rights to put a one hundred percent juice concentrate product on the market. This category was extremely big in America especially in frozen cans. As with in France, it was more of an adult market involving a relatively expensive product that could easily justify the increased cost of the bottle. The American consumer had been tending to favor reconstituted juice over concentrated juice that needed dilution at home - much to the chagrin of the retail trade who had to allot a great deal of shelf space to bulky containers. Now, however, the expandable bottle allowed them the best of both worlds: a
203
PRIVATE SCREENING
compact container that could be expanded at home, only required the addition of water and whose bellows represented the perfect blending mechanism. Burple wasn't the only company renegotiating its license. So too was Pop 'n' Shake. The Bernsteins were now requesting the right to sell milkshake mixes and reusable general purpose canisters. Although I had no problems with the first application, I demanded they sold the empty canisters as blenders only. This was another of my attempts to educate the consumer about the blending feature of the container. Popeet, however, having acquired a national reputation through their TV campaign, asked to be allowed to sell at retail. Popeet, after all, had become a household name by then and it was time to make it more conveniently available to the consumer. Unfortunately, it would now have to compete against other brand-names such as the Shrinkables, Pop 'n' Blend and The Amazing Bottle. You would have thought a country the size of America would have been large enough for all of them and they wouldn't have been running into each other so often. "Not so," said Issie Kroll. "Representatives are running into each other all the time - in fact it's started a price-war between us. Don't forget that there are only so many supermarket chains out there and we're all trying to hit them first." I was sorry to hear about their problems but they had, when all was said and done, accepted to sell their products on a non-exclusive basis. Since there was virtually no limit to the different shapes and designs that this technology could allow, they could have easily adapted their range of products to look different and secure their share of the enterprise is not, after all, based on exclusivity. Especially market in view of the uncertain patents I was holding, it shouldn't have made any difference to them. They, however, did not see it this way. Their royalty payments became more and more infrequent and they even threatened to rebel against the entire royalty structure. "I'm paying you five cents a bottle," said Steve Bernstein. "And Nike is importing them from the Far East and giving them away free with every pair of shoes they sell." It was a pleasant spring day when Michael Hudson called me up and asked me to have lunch with him. I thought it was strange that he
204
THE FRAME-UP
didn't want Dennis to be there too and suspected that there was something h e wanted from me. But maybe h e was just curious about the progress of the collapsible bottle: he was, after all, the person who had prepared the business plan for the European operation and was already very familiar with the product. At that time Michael was working as the president of a toy company with national distribution. The company was new and also had patented products and he must have been going through the same licensees. learning curve as myself and Michael was a tall, handsome, athletic man in his late thirties the total opposite of Dennis Lawrence. He spoke authoritatively, was very articulate and his presence alone could make or break deals. Our lunch took several hours and was very frank and open. Finally I asked him whether there was any chance of his joining CBA. "Dennis Lawrence would hit the ceiling if h e saw me anywhere near that office," he replied. We both knew that Dennis had lied to me about his competence and background and it was pretty obvious that Michael's working with us would have been a constant threat to him. There was no doubt in my mind which one of the two I thought most honest and straightforward: Michael was a born-again Christian and had managed some Christian associations in the past. His integrity was beyond question. "Michael," I said. "I hope you realize that Dennis is my book-keeper at CBA and nothing more than that. He may style himself president but it's a title h e assumed himself. As far as he's concerned, I'm the chairman." "And are you?" "The chairman? No, I'm the general partner. I have enough o n my plate already without bothering with titles." "What is it, exactly, you need me for?" "I need someone I can trust to look after the day-to-day running of the company - the boring stuff in other words leaving me free t o concentrate o n my worldwide operation and my market strategies." "Won't your partners object to that?" he asked. "What do you mean?" "Well, as general partner you're the one who's responsible for the day-to-day running of the company." "Don't worry about that," I said. "Dennis already sent a letter to my partners informing them of his existence and outlining his duties. I haven't received a complaint yet." "It doesn't mean you won't," Michael countered.
205
PRIVATE SCREENING
"From my experience up to now," I replied, "silence is my partners' way of saying 'yes'." "What makes you think Dennis told them what you asked him to tell them?" "I can't imagine what he'd have to gain by telling them anything else. Mind you, I'm keeping a close eye on him. I've made sure he doesn't deal with any business except the book-keeping and the accounting. At the moment he's trying to computerize it and that should occupy him for quite a while it's pretty sophisticated software." "Is it indeed?" Michael raised his eyebrows in suspicion. "Be careful, Bill," he said. "Some software can be as impenetrable as a secret code if you don't know your way around it. One thing's for certain: if he wanted a way of keeping the information from you, he couldn't have chosen a better method. I hope you're keeping an eye on checkbook, at least." the bank statements and "I'm doing my best," I replied. "I just hope my best is good enough." "Well, I must say I really can't understand why he's still working for you." "I guess I've been waiting for the right person to come along," I said. "I can promise you this: if you come and work for us, you'll be the president of the company the real president. As for Dennis well, we'll have to figure something else out for him." "Like firing him, you mean?" "That's one possibility, yes." "If I were you, I wouldn't waste any time about it. And I'm not just saying that because I want a job. The guy's a crook, Bill. If you don't believe me, just go down to the San courthouse and pull the files on Mr Dennis Lawrence. That'll give you some idea of the number of people who're suing him for fraud." I did as Michael suggested. I already knew, of course, that Dennis' million dollar house near the La golf club had been rented. What I hadn't known was that he had not actually paid his rent for several months, resulting in a court order to vacate the property and pay nearly five thousand dollars in arrears. In addition he was being sued for fraud by a certain Mr and Mrs Telles. Apparently he had promised to invest their money and, in fact, he had invested it in himself. To make matters worse, this had occurred at a time when Dennis had claimed to be working exclusively for CBA. As the final icing on the
206
THE FRAME-UP
cake, h e had also been declared personally bankrupt in 1979. God alone knew what had happened to Wexford Capital. I found references to further legal disputes that would have taken me to Los Angeles and several other places but by then I had decided that I already knew enough. Probably the most surprising and disturbing of Michael's revelations concerned CBI, the company that Dennis and I had established to seek out investment for the European market and which had been registered as a limited partnership in the state of Missouri. When Dennis had abandoned his attempts to find investors - if, indeed, he had ever begun them - I had naturally assumed that CBI had ceased to exist as a functioning entity. Not so, it seemed. CBI was still open for business. "Just d o me a favor will you, Bill?" said Michael. "Never use the name Collapsible Bottle International again. If you sign an agreement under that name if you sign any European agreement, come to that Dennis will demand his five percent equity and his sixty thousand dollar salary. Okay, maybe you think you can afford five percent but I can tell you now that when Dennis drafted the European offering he did it in such a way as to legally entitle him to take charge of the market." "You're joking," I gasped. "I never joke about money." "Jesus! I've been corresponding with potential licensees under that letterhead. Dennis has already had special stationery printed." "Burn it. Stop using it anyway. Look, Bill: it seems to me that Dennis has dug himself pretty deep into your operation. I know I advised you t o fire him but I think it's gone too far for that now. If you try to successes. He'll get rid of him, he'll simply take the credit for all make it look like he's the master and you're the pupil. He might even persuade your partners of that." "That probably wouldn't be difficult," I muttered. "As far as I see it, this is just one more reason why you should come and work for me. You'll be m y witness that I run this company and not Dennis Lawrence. He only raises the problems: I'm the one who finds the solutions." As Michael was still undecided about joining CBA, I gave Kevin Schwemley a call. This time h e was definitely surprised to hear from me and he made n o attempt to hide it. "What is it now, Bill?" he sighed. "Just when I thought it was safe to go back in the water, you come cruising by again."
207
PRIVATE SCREENING
"It's different this time," I protested. "And I bet that's what the shark says before he takes your other leg off,"replied Kevin. "Okay, let's hear it." "I'd like you to come and work for me." "What? Listen, Bill. The last time we spoke you couldn't even pay a part-time accountant. Now you're offering me a job." "The situation's improved since then." "I sure hope it has. Anyway, I thought you already had some guy working for you. A Mr Lawrence, wasn't it?" "He's the problem," I replied. "Look, Kevin. We're now starting to sell containers ourselves through the Amazing Bottle Company in Sacramento; Burple has just received additional funding to carry them through t o the next summer season. We're doing okay. But Dennis Lawrence is showing clear signs of malicious intent. God knows what he's doing with CBA's book-keeping I'm simply losing track of the "If you're so desperate, why don't you put the accounts in the hands of an independent accounting firm?" "We have done. Or rather Dennis has. The trouble is, he's doing a pretty good job of keeping me away from them. He's also computerized our book-keeping and effectively denied me access to it." "You're the boss, aren't you? Make him do it!" "I wish it were as easy as that. Every time I ask him about it, he says he hasn't quite got it figured out for himself yet. He claims to be still in the process of learning." "Learning? I thought you said he was an accountant?" "Kevin, Dennis isn't even a book-keeper let alone an accountant and he certainly isn't a C.P.A., as he claimed to be. If you want a brief sketch of what he is, he's a guy who found himself in the right place, at the right time, when the wrong subjects were being discussed. To put it bluntly, he's a blackmailer and an extortionist and a cum laude graduate of the University of Life!'' "I hope you never put that in writing," said Kevin. "Not unless you've gotten yourself a good lawyer." "You think I'm defaming his character? Most of this is a matter of public record for Chrissakes!" "Then why on earth did you employ him?" "Because I didn't know then what I know now. Simple, isn't it? Listen. You have far more experience of CBA's book-keeping "You mean the check-stubs and the credit-card statements?"
208
THE FRAME-UP
"Okay. Okay. I get your point. The thing is, I trust you. I'd like you to investigate our accounts and correct, what's wrong with them. Or at least deter Dennis from doing anything further." "That seems a pretty tall order. What do I get out of it? Apart from the dubious pleasure of working for a company that's constantly on the point of going bust, that is." "How much do you make now?" I asked him. "Twenty four thousand a year." "Okay," I said. pay you forty thousand - that's almost double and it's five grand more than I make." "Well, it's a very tempting offer," he said. definitely think seriously about it. As I see it now, it has two good points and one bad point." "And what are they?" I asked anxiously. "The good points are that you're offering me a damned attractive salary and that I love San and wouldn't mind moving there. The bad point is that I'm engaged to a girl who attends University and she still has two more years to go." "She can transfer down here." "I'd really have to discuss it with her. 1'11 get back to you." Kevin did get back to me but it was only to say that he had still not decided what to do. He was clearly trying to buy himself time in an effort to determine whether the company would be able to afford him after his first salary-check. I kept in touch with him, off and on, for several weeks until we finally agreed that his was in to stay and so was he. When I talked to Dennis about Michael's joining the company he predictably tried to talk me out of it. He blamed the failure of the CBI European offering on Michael's incompetence and also, since the business of CBA had slowed down drastically, he claimed that there was no need for a new employee. Even if this had been true, I had already made up my mind that Michael was to replace Dennis Lawrence in all of his capacities a change that was long overdue. Michael was like a breath of fresh air. He was quick thinking and efficient. Dennis, by contrast, could be painfully slow it took him an age to accomplish anything and this was not really surprising in view of the fact that he would lock his office door every afternoon to take a nap on his new leather couch. Rebecca proved to be a very competent secretary and never allowed her beliefs to interfere with the office routine. Though I tried
209
PRIVATE SCREENING
to avoid the subject as well as I could, Michael, a true Christian, took full advantage of every opportunity to snipe at her religion. The situation became so uncomfortable that I finally had to say something to him. "It's only meant in fun," he protested. "There's nothing serious about it." "Look, Michael," I replied. "It might well be fun for you but it sure as hell isn't fun for her. Give it a rest, will you?" Myriam called. She had been calling several times a week and it must have been costing her a fortune. This time, however, it was not to chat or to ask me about my new house. "I'm at the end of my rope, Bill," she said. "I can't stand one more day of this. I'm ashamed to say it, but I've even been feeling suicidal." I'd never heard her like that before and I could understand what she was going through. While I had a million things to keep me busy in California, she was sitting in a small village in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do but wait. My immigration attorney went by the highly suitable handle of Mr Lincoln. He was a man in his forties and had clearly modeled his appearance on his illustrious namesake. I had hired him to speed up the procedure for acquiring a fiancee visa and to procure the necessary documents. Getting a copy of my divorce decree from Birgit was the only really time-consuming job. Mr Lincoln had first to supply my petition for a visa for approval by the I.N.S.. Then Myriam was asked to do the same by the American consulate in Marseille. It had been over two months since he had sent the completed documents to the immigration service and the approval had still not come back. At this rate, it would take us six months before Myriam would receive her American visa. This was a far cry from the thirty days we had been promised by the consulate in France. Mr Lincoln agreed that the circumstances were extraordinary. "The timing of your application couldn't have been worse," he said, stroking his beard ruefully. "You see the U.S. government has decided to extend a general amnesty to all illegal immigrants residing here and that's congesting the work of the immigration services." While this was undoubtedly a simple question of bad luck, it did nothing to console Myriam. Ironically, in six months' time our Euro-
210
THE FRAME-UP
pean office was to have been in full operation and her presence in the States would merely have been for tourism anyway. A further irony was that, at this time, France decided to impose visa requirements on all non-European visitors - including Americans. They claimed that this was a result of the wave of terrorism that had swept across France in 1988. I'm sure that it was also a way of getting home to the Americans that their own country was not such a paradise that they needed to put potential immigrants through a hard time in order to go there. As a result of this new legislation, I was obliged to go to the French consulate in Los Angeles. There I found a queue of about twenty people waiting for visas. It was fast-moving, however, and, when it came to my turn there were no questions asked about how long I intended to stay in France or what I wanted to do there - my passport was stamped immediately with a five-year visa. If I'd been Carlos the in my suitcase and a Kalashnikov Jackal with five kilos of strapped to my leg, I'm sure I wouldn't have been made less welcome. However, this didn't prevent most of the other applicants from complaining loudly about the fact that they had had to drive from as far for this simple procedure. away as San "Who the hell do these French think they are?" grumbled a good many of them. "All I want to do is look at the Eiffel Tower and go to the Follies for God's sake. You mean to say we freed them from the nazis for this!" Little did they realize what Europeans had to go through to get to the United States. This whole business was very humiliating for Myriam. Discrimination and anti-semitism still remained widespread in France mostly because of the large number of North African immigrants and the steadily worsening economic climate. Understandably, Myriam was beginning to identify with the problems encountered by people who had come to her country to seek a better life and provide a better future for their families only to meet a stone wall of indifference and antagonism. She wasn't looking for a better life she just wanted to join the man she loved. Having once had a high regard for America and Americans, she, like the people in the queue in Los Angles, was beginning to think: "Who the hell do these people think they are? I'm not a criminal! I'm not a terrorist!" My flight to France took me over the frozen wastes of the North Pole but I found the weather in the South of France identical to what
211
PRIVATE SCREENING
I'd left in California. The girl who met me at Marseille airport, however, was not the same Myriam that I had left there a couple of months earlier. In contrast t o the bright summer dress she was wearing she looked pale and drawn and tired. She avoided eye-contact but she was extraordinarily affectionate almost as if she were saying goodbye. We got into the car and drove away from the airport. In spite of her displays of affection, Myriam was unusually quiet and I felt some sort of pressure o n me to fill the gap with conversation. I gabbled on inanely about the flight, about CBA and Dennis Lawrence, about anything that would fill that awful silence. "Bill?" she said suddenly. "Do you know what it's like to contemplate suicide. Your life is never quite the same again." I knew exactly what she meant. I had also once tried t o kill myself when I was about her age. I had spent five days in a coma and had inherited chronic insomnia. Myriam was not driving towards the mountains this time: she was going east towards Nice. She had located a n apartment which could be rented by the week. I guess she wanted to prove to me what a great housewife she could make. It was a studio apartment situated a couple of blocks behind the Boulevard des Anglais the main road. Its central position allowed us to abandon the car for the duration of our stay. We spent termost of our time strolling around the town and lingering o n races t o watch the tourists at play. It was on one of these terraces that Myriam turned to me and said: "To hell with America! You know, I don't even feel like going there any more!" I could see her point. What did California have to offer that couldn't be bettered or at least equalled here? Here there was a Riviera which stretched almost uninterrupted from Barcelona to Trieste a iera which offered a dazzling variety of cultures, a marvellous climate, cafe-life, topless sunbathing, gourmet food, history, beauty and pure joie de vivre. It was enough t o make the most dyed-in-the-wool Californian drool. Nice was also an ideal situation for doing business. It was perfectly located for France, Spain and Italy - the largest market for juice concentrates in Europe. business could be comfortably conducted from there since we only existed to license our technology and not to deal directly with any products. After all, most important customer - had been nothing more than the result of two trips to Heidelberg, Germany.
212
THE FRAME-UP
Licensing is a very slow process and your place of business has nothing to do with it, as far as your customers are concerned. Even though the industry at large was familiar with our concept, we still needed a track-record that only time could provide. But time was, and had always been, my number-one enemy - especially where Myriam was concerned. "It's always waiting these days," she said. "Waiting for this, waiting for that! I've never had to wait for anything in my life before - unless it was my pay-check." We were sitting on the terrace of a on the Boulevard des Anglais. In front of us, a fiery red sun was setting over the Mediterranean. In my pocket was a small box that had been attempting to burn its way through to the outside all day. This seemed as good a time as any to save it the trouble. "Well here's something you don't have to wait for," I said, taking the box out and opening it for her. I had bought the ring in California with, of all people, Dennis Lawrence. I had been intending to give it to her in Villefort, in the presence of her parents, but a private moment seemed much better. "It's beautiful," she said. "It must have cost you a fortune." "Not a fortune," I replied. "But enough. I know we've been engaged for a few months already but now it's official, isn't it." Myriam could hardly wait to show it to her parents. We left Nice for the mountains and a twenty-first birthday party that had been organized for her sister Valerie at the local community hall and to which all the town dignitaries had been invited. "It's beautiful, Bill," said Myriam's mother, after she had seen the ring. "We'll make this a double celebration. Let's announce your engagement formally this time." She got up and made a speech to the hundred or so guests. This was received with a great deal of enthusiasm and Myriam and I soon became the center of a crowd of well-wishers who all wanted to shake me by the hand and kiss Myriam and admire the ring. It was a pity for Valerie but we stole the show. The celebrations went on late into the night. Back at the Gilles house later, the noise and laughter continued until morning. Valerie had invited most of her girlfriends down from Paris and the place looked like the YWCA. In the morning the house was full of scantily clad, or totally un-clad girls who, far from being modest about my seeing them as I journeyed to the bathroom and back, appeared to take
213
PRIVATE SCREENING
great delight and pride in showing how free and unselfconscious they were in comparison with American women. The party had been such that it took us almost all the remaining few days of my stay to recover from it. Too soon, the time came to return to the States. As the time of my departure drew near I began to notice a change in Myriam's behaviour. She started to be slightly more distant towards me and this rapidly degenerated to a perceptible coolness. For her, yet another deadline was approaching a deadline that would leave her alone to drudge way at the waitressing jobs that she had been doing to kill time and earn a little money. She looked to me for a commitment that I would return to set up and run the European operation that we had talked about so often but this was a commitment that I was unable, honestly, to give her I needed to secure at least one European customer before that could become a practical reality. Unfortunately Myriam interpreted this as a judgement on her. She saw me preferring my business to our relationship and this led to an increasing amount of unvoiced resentment. Her parents began to notice her change in mood too. When it was time for us to drive to the airport at Marignane they insisted on accompanying us and I knew that this was less because they wished to see me off and more that they wanted to protect their daughter. Nobody came to the check-in desk with me. They dropped me in front of the departure hall, we said goodbye, and then they drove off back to Back in California I discovered, with relief, that my visa petition had been accepted by the immigration service. Immediately I phoned Myriam to tell her the good news and that now all she had to do was to submit her own documents to the consulate in Marseille. "She isn't here, Bill," said Andre. "She's gone to Paris with Valerie for a few days." I phoned Valerie's apartment. Myriam wasn't there. She seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth. In desperation, I left a message with both her sisters and her parents explaining why it was so vital for her to get in touch with me. The days passed and still I heard nothing. I kept phoning but she was never there and nobody ever seemed to know where she was. Rebecca became concerned about my strange behaviour and finally she asked me what was going on.
214
THE FRAME-UP
"I don't know," I replied. "I wish I did. Myriam's had some sort of nervous breakdown, I think. Nobody appears to know where she is - or if they do, they won't tell me. She seems to have decided that all finished between us." Rebecca was sympathetic and did her best to console me. That same day I had to leave the office for some reason. When I returned I vous aime." found a note on my desk. It read: For most people this would have meant a simple "I love you". For Rebecca it meant "Marry me instead."
215
12 . MICHAEL
Losing Myriam changed me. Up to then, I had always been able to explain the failure of my relationships on some sort of inadequacy real or imagined - on the part of the other person. This final blow forced me to confront the painful reality that the collapsible bottle and a settled family life did not seem to mix. In four years of business I had gone through as many unsuccessful liaisons and now I decided that it was time to remedy the situation. It was clearly the anxieties associated with my business that were at the root of the problem. I would have to eradicate them first starting with Dennis Lawrence. This resolve, however, was far easier to formulate than to carry into practice. It would mean taking the bull by the horns and precipitating conflicts of that nature was quite alien to my personality. Finally, as so often happens, the opportunity presented itself without my having to engineer it. a smiling Dennis. One Saturday morning I was wakened "Have I got a surprise for you!" he beamed. "You mean there's another one?" I asked. "It's nine-thirty, Dennis," I growled. "If waking up to see you staring at me isn't a surprise, I don't know what is!" "You'll love this!" he enthused. "Get your clothes on. We're going for a walk." Reluctantly, I obeyed. As I struggled into my jeans, I consoled myself with the thought that Dennis' idea of a walk couldn't possibly be more than a hundred yards at most. In fact, this proved to be so: he took me across the street to the La Jolla Mall and part of that journey was by escalator. "This'd better be good, Dennis," I muttered. "Sleep's a premium commodity with me."
216
THE FRAME-UP
"You won't regret this," he assured me. "Things like this don't come up every day and you know what they say, don't you? The early bird catches the worm!" "You mean we're going fishing?" We reached the basement level and I found myself staring across the shopping mall. "It's great, Dennis!" I said. "Truly great! Now can I go back to bed?" "Just look at that, will you?" he wheezed. He was pointing to a Rolls Royce which was on prominent display in the center of the walkway. It was, apparently, ten years old and had previously belonged to a little old millionairess who only used it on Sundays. The Rolls was certainly a beautiful automobile with cream and beige coachwork and a leather interior. It was car to dream about and it bore a price-tag guaranteed to provide nightmares: forty-seven thousand dollars. "Well, what do you think?" asked Dennis, proudly. "It's ten years old, Dennis," I replied. "It's probably falling to bits." "It's a Rolls Royce, for God's sake! If anything falls off that, a mechanic flies out from England to fix it for you! Besides, a Rolls Royce never breaks down." "Fine," I said. "Isn't it a bit beyond your reach, price-wise?" "It's not for me!" he exclaimed. "It's for us ou...CBA, I mean!" I had never seen a Rolls Royce for sale in my life. Normally, I would have jumped at the chance of taking it for a test-drive and would certainly have returned it to the showroom and claimed it was the wrong color. "It's a steal, Bill," continued Dennis. "Now that Peter's paid his royalty, it's time the company invested in a car that reflects its prestige. It's good P.R.." "It's expensive P.R.," I countered. I could feel the blood mounting to my face. Who did Dennis take me for? "Suit yourself," he sneered. "If you want people to regard CBA as a two-bit operation, that's your problem." "If we 'reinvest' that way, we won't even be worth two bits," I replied. "Listen, Dennis. You know and I know that the only reason you want us to buy that car is so that you can cruise around in it and impress your friends. P.R. doesn't come into it!" Dennis shot me a reproachful look. "You've got it wrong, Bill," he said, shaking his head sadly.
217
PRIVATE SCREENING
"Maybe I have," I replied. "But if you don't mind, head back to bed." "Hey, wait a minute!" he said, spreading his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "As we're here we might as well discuss it over a cup of coffee." "There's nothing to discuss," I snapped. "But, okay, I've no objection to a cup of coffee. I haven't even had breakfast yet." We left the car showroom and set off in the direction of a nearby coffee shop. My head was beginning to clear at last and suddenly the whole episode was falling into place. If I had agreed to buy the Rolls, Dennis would have lost no time in informing my partners. They, with some justification, would immediately have marked me down as an outrageous spendthrift who was squandering company money on luxury items for his own, private use. Obviously this was all part of an ongoing strategy, the ultimate goal of which was my downfall. A year previously, Dennis had been busy soliciting two and a half million dollars for Europe and setting himself up to manage the entire operation. When that had failed, he had tricked me into becoming his affair and used that leverage to secure accomplice in the himself a job with CBA. He had once made it perfectly clear that he was willing to blow my head off and now he was an important witness in the five million dollar law-suit filed by SCAT against CBA, me and himself. He had next tried to take advantage of my buying a house, and of my honeymoon mood in France, to get me to sign a power of attorney which would have effectively placed control of the company in his hands. Lately he had reverted to blackmail and extortion over the validity of my patents. Viewed in this context, his suggested purchase was only the latest move in a well-considered camof the paign. I was beginning to regret that I had always exaggerated Dennis' competence when the partners had asked me about his work. As long as his services could have been dispensed with easily, I hadn't thought it necessary to reveal my suspicions to them. I had reasoned that I was under n o contractual obligation to him and that his removal would have been a comparatively simple procedure. On reflection, I had seen this latest move coming. Dennis had been contacting my partners individually and what I had first judged to be a mere matter of business relations was now clearly a strategy to gain their confidence and use it against me. What if he did? I was the general partner and any attempt to depose me would surely end in the
218
THE FRAME-UP
disintegration of the company. I had made sure of that when the partnership agreement was drawn up. Well, I said to myself as we walked towards the coffee shop, this is definitely going to be Dennis' last game before I retire him permanently. In the meantime, to put a stop to the last hold he had on me, I would license the Hollow Articles patent as yet not granted by the U.S. Patent Office to a new corporation to be established under the name of Amazing Bottles International. Each of my customers would be simultaneously licensed for my original patent by CBA and for the new patent by ABI but with one significant difference: the contracts would stipulate that, in the event of either of them being invalidated, the royalties from it would revert to the other company. In the case of both patents being invalidated, the royalties would still have to be paid as compensation for the technical expertise and support provided to our licensees. Most importantly, ABI, as a corporation, would benefit from limited liability and Dennis' threats to reveal the uncertainty of my patents would have no further force. "They'll never buy it," said Dennis, as I gave him a judiciously edited version of my plan over coffee. "Who won't?" "Your licensees, that's who. Listen. If you ask them to pay royalties even though they're getting no patent protection, they'll laugh in your face. I like the idea of the ABI corporation, though." "Do you?" I said, guardedly. "Sure. If our products are directly available to the public, we need forbidden from comsome sort of liability protection. Besides, peting with its licensees. Your partners seem to have accepted the Amazing Bottle Corporation in Sacramento: they shouldn't object to being part of ABI." "I sure hope not," I said. "So you think it's a winner, huh?" "It certainly sounds like it." "And what do you want out of it?" Dennis pursed his lips and stared through the window of the coffee shop towards the Rolls Royce. "Does five percent equity sound too much?" "Five percent." "Think about it." "How about zilch?" Dennis looked startled. He couldn't have been that naive. "Look, Dennis," I continued. "The only reason you're still here at all is that I pity you. It certainly has nothing to do with your
219
PRIVATE SCREENING
tence. Now I wouldn't say that pity is a particularly good basis for a working relationship, would you?" "Are you saying I can't do my job?" "Oh, you can do your job all right. You just can't do it well, that's all. And look at you! You promised to lose weight and you haven't in fact, if anything, you're fatter than when I first met you. On the telephone you puff and wheeze like a steam locomotive and, last of all but certainly not least, you're trying to set me up with my partners." "Set you up?" "Come on, Dennis! You think I just popped out of the egg or something? What was all that about the Rolls Royce, huh? You think I'm Mick Jagger? If we've got any money to spare, it can be put to much better uses than buying a damned car." "Seemed like a good idea to me." "I bet it did! Only I'm not in this business to become rich and famous: I'm in it because I started it and I'm not a quitter. It'll be a long time yet - if ever before I have money to waste on fancy cars. Why do you think I fly economy class? It certainly isn't for the comfort, Dennis. God knows, my back aches for weeks at a time afterwards!" "Okay, so forget it," said Dennis. "But I can assure you that I had n o intention of setting you up. You'll just have to take my word for that." I smiled and said nothing. "Look, admit that I've disappointed you more than once," he continued. "But the most important thing for me is staying in this operation. You can't blame me for that. Sometimes I take things for granted and jump ahead of myself but basically I have CBA's and your interests at heart." "Then quit messing around with my image," I replied. "I thought you'd have realized by now that CBA's fortunes depend on my reputation as the inventor. Have you any idea how many kids buy our licensees' products? If I appear to be anything less than honest and wholesome, they can kiss goodbye to that market straight away. You see, sooner or later, people want to know who's behind the product and if he turns out to be some sort of crook, the Great American Public will vote with its pocketbook and we'll all be out of office." "I get your point," said Dennis. "Can we at least tell them you speak with an accent?" I laughed. It was always the same. Just when I had cast Dennis in the role of villain and convinced myself that he had absolutely no redeeming qualities, there would come a brief spark of humor, a
220
THE FRAME-UP
prising flash of wit, which forced me to re-examine my decision. From a business point of view, it demonstrated a fundamental flaw in my character: I was always too ready to believe that there was some good in everyone and that it was simply a question of bringing it to the surface. And Dennis could be good company if he wanted to be. Typical of many people who are physically unattractive, he frequently compensated for it with a certain personal charm. The trouble was that he also made use of this charm to conceal his real motives and thus it was always difficult to determine which side of his character I was dealing with. "I can tell you one thing I am good at," he said, when my laughter had subsided. "Once this ABI company is established, I can help you raise millions of dollars from investors." It was another case of vu. "Haven't I heard this somewhere before?" I asked. "You mean the CBI partnership? That was far too premature, Bill. If the bottle had only had some sort of proven track record I could have raised the two point eight million with no trouble at all." "Two point eight million? What happened to two point five?" "You wouldn't have expected me to work without a commission, would you? I would've deserved some sort of tip for my efforts." "Three hundred thousand dollars is some tip!" Dennis waved his hand dismissively. "Right now," he continued, "CBA has over a quarter of a million dollars worth of molds and over fifteen million dollars in royalties guaranteed by its licensees. Add to which, the products are advertised, and available, coast to coast. Now that Kool Aid is in the market, I'm pretty sure that I can raise ten or twenty million dollars if we make this corporation public. I can get the shares qualified by the Securities and Exchange Commission and put out a public offering." "Like the European offering, you mean? Another fraudulent deal?" "Fraudulent?" Dennis looked genuinely shocked. "You know what I mean. The offering documents were full of irregularities. If the S.E.C. had known about it, you'd be in jail by now." "Who told you that? It was Michael Hudson, right?" "Never mind who told me," I replied. "Just make sure it never happens again. If you want to play fast and loose on your own account, be my guest, but include me out." "So, you're interested in going public?" "Sure."
221
PRIVATE SCREENING
Dennis allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. He seemed to be saying: "You can call me all the names you like but this is one thing that Michael Hudson can't do." "You like the idea of our shares being traded on the stock exchange, huh?" he pursued. "Who wouldn't?" I replied. "It's the big time, right? I always knew your talents lay some place: I just never knew where, that's all." "So that's settled then?" "I guess so. In the meantime I want you to pass all the information regarding day-to-day running of the company to Michael Hudson." "What?" "You're going to have quite a bit of work cut out for you. It'll leave your hands free. I want you to give him the accounts, the customer files...everything. I also want you to keep him up to date with all situations, okay?" "If you say so," replied Dennis, grudgingly. "But I must insist that the book-keeping and accounting stay with me until the end of this tax-year. I've been working in very close cooperation with our accounting firm and I don't want everything disrupted at this late stage." If I wanted Dennis to accept the reduction of his duties gracefully I had no alternative to complying with this request. However, this made the concessions I had wrung from him a very hollow victory indeed. After all, the book-keeping and accounting was the greatest area of concern to me. Dennis had not even introduced me to the accounting firm and I wondered whether their dealing with someone other than the general partner was entirely legal. One thing was sure: by now I had completely lost track of the accounts and I had no idea of what was going on. My fears and suspicions also seemed to be shared by Michael Hudson. With a master's degree in business administration, Michael could see no reason for Dennis' reluctance to hand over the accounts to him other than that there was something false about them. As we were now rewriting all our licenses, Michael's joining the company couldn't have come at a better time. When Peter and his Sundale investors asked for another meeting in San Francisco, I asked him to join me there. I felt sure I was certain to impress them now. Peter with his exclusive license and his substantial investment in his own molds, was not concerned about competition or the strength of my patents. In fact, as the summer season was approaching, Burple had just introduced an eight ounce bottle called Baby Burple. It
222
THE FRAME-UP
was sold as a three-pack and the kids went crazy over it. Its launching was such a success and its gimmick factor was so strong that it facilitated the introduction of all Burple's products. Sundale's investors were so encouraged by this sudden surge in sales which had multiplied tenfold that Peter showed interest in acquiring additional rights. He had two requests: he wanted to have exclusivity on the one hundred percent juice category and he wanted to have the same rights in Europe as he had in America. This new package was going to generate thirty million dollars for the American operation and another thirty million for the European had requested that nearoperation. Only a few months earlier ly half of their 1988 license fee be written off because they were unable to pay the full amount. Now Peter was saying that his own investors and others were willing to put in additional funds on condition that they received more products and territories. The stakes were definitely getting higher now. Being a company that had already two years' experience dealing with the collapsible bottles and had spent over five million dollars on marketing, Sundale's increased participation convinced me that before very long we would all be millionaires. We spent the following few days rewriting Burple's ABI and CBA license for the U.S. market a license that would give exclusive rights on fruit syrups and one hundred percent juice concentrates. Similar rights were issued to them for Europe in a simple letter of intent. A full license was to be negotiated later. knew of my forthcoming trip to Europe and was fully Peter aware of my advanced negotiations with European companies. This letter of intent was his way of ensuring that I would not give these applications away to his European competitors. A Europe was going to s provide him with additional investment money, I insisted on getting an advance on my European royalties before I signed the document. A note for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars - being no more than an advance on his royalty fee - was subsequently drafted in San in the presence of Dennis, Michael, Peter and Peter's C.F.O., Tim. The note was duly signed and it was agreed that a check was to follow a few days later, after Peter had met his Bay Area investors. I waited for the check for several days. Peter was full of excuses for its non-arrival but my trip to Europe was fast approaching and I had a y non-refundable ticket. B the time I left, the check had still not arrived.
223
PRIVATE SCREENING
On my way to Europe, I was to stop over in Toronto where a potential customer was anxiously awaiting my arrival. Joe Aziz was a successful importer and distributor of finished textile products, mostly from the Far East who had expressed interest in distributing and manufacturing collapsible containers for Canada. The TV ads for the Popeet ten-piece set had spilled over the Canadian border and had already generated a lot of interest. Unfortunately Canadian consumers could not buy the product since I had not yet issued a license for Canada - hence Aziz's immediate interest. By the time my plane touched down on the other side of the border, I had been receiving several calls a week from him. "Millions of Canadians know about the Popeet bottles," he said. "The market is already there. All I need now are the bottles." Joe picked me up from the airport and checked me into a hotel near his house. He had also arranged for two other businessmen to meet me during my forty-eight hour stop-over. One of them was the grandson of the founder of the McCormick company - who still owned twenty percent of the corporation. "I must say we're all very impressed with your bottles, Bill," said Michael. "Especially the little Baby Burples from It's my belief that McCormick could use them for its salad-dressing mixes. We could sell them containing condiment instead of fruit concentrate and the customer would just have to add, milk, water or oil as appropriate." Henry was the president of Nestle Canada. Henry had ideas of his own. "We could fill your one quart jars with Coffeemate and give them to officesaround Canada as promotional items. All the recipient has to do is collapse the jar as the level goes down. It'd make a great Christmas gift." On the evening of my arrival, the four of us met to discuss my invention and its potential applications over dinner. They were all a far cry from the partners I had left behind in California: these guys were involved in businesses ranging from detergents to photo-copiers and had the qualifications and experience to ensure the success of any venture they undertook. I was sure that if I entrusted only a part of my Canadian patents to them, they would not only make a success of it but would also give a substantial boost to the U.S. market. I met Henry once again the next morning as he had arranged a meeting with his engineers and marketing people at the corporate headquarters in Toronto. There, in a conference room, I gave them a rundown of my achievements to date and what the future held for the
224
THE FRAME-UP
technology. At the end of the meeting Henry asked me to follow him to his office. "I'm impressed, Bill," he said, once the door had closed behind us. "In fact I'm so impressed that I'm going to call the corporate managers in Switzerland right now and schedule a meeting for you. I want you to go to Montreux and give them the same presentation that you've just given here." I retired to my hotel satisfied with our meetings and looking forward to the future. and joining the collapsible bottle club was more than I'd dared dream of and now it looked very much as if it would become a reality. Back at the hotel I was brought rudely down to earth. Peter had left a message for me asking me to meet him at Toronto airport on an urgent matter. His flight from Chicago was due to arrive two hours before my plane departed for Amsterdam and so Joe and Michael decided to join me in the TWA executive lounge. They were anxious to meet Peter too. As the two of them drove me to the airport I knew exactly what Peter's urgent matter was: he had finally gotten hold of his two hundred and fifty thousand dollar check and was anxious to deliver it to me. His doing so in front of Joe and Michael was their final proof if more were needed that the United States operation was alive and kicking. This was the first time since I invented the collapsible bottle that I truly believed it had secured its place in history. It had taken a great deal of persuasion, some slick maneuvering and a lot of hard work but now I felt that I could congratulate myself that an individual such as Peter had turned his initial twenty thousand dollar investment into a multi-million dollar concern. All the same, I had learned to be cautious and suspicious of his promises: on several occasions I'd nearly found myself on the street when he'd been unable to pay his royalties until the last minute. It seemed now, however, that this period of uncertainty might have come to an end. Under the supervision of a large venture-capital had dealt with the collapsible bottle for three years group, seeing it through its design stages and its manufacturing to its eventual sale. I had no reason to think that they would enter into a seventy million dollar contract unless they were confident of being able to make a success of it.
225
PRIVATE SCREENING
In Holland, picked me up at Schiphol airport and from there we drove to The Hague and checked into a Van der Valk hotel one of a chain that might be roughly compared with American Holiday Inns. It was fairly inexpensive and comfortable and was not exactly chose it purposely to refresh unfamiliar to either of us. In fact my memory about the 'fringe benefits' she had allowed me in the past. In the afternoon we went to her office to check for any messages that Dennis Lawrence might have left for me. At the same time I took possession of one of their rooms. The next thing on my agenda was to purchase some office furniture and open a bank account where I could deposit Peter's check. It was time to start making good use of it: the European operation was fully under way now and some basic necessities had to be attended to immediately. My first need was a means of transportation. I decided to buy a Mercedes. In America this would have been regarded as a needless if not an irresponsibly extravagant luxury but in Holland the Mercedes is little more than a standard family car and the sight of one on the roads turns nobody's head. The 190 diesel that I finally bought was the cheapest of the range and cost me n o more than my van had done back in California. Were it not for the associations that the name Mercedes Benz carries for the American public, I wouldn't consider it worth mentioning and would certainly make no big deal out of the issue. Sadly, the fact that I chose this make, rather than a Toyota or a Ford, was to have damaging repercussions in the future. At the time, I simply chose what I considered to be the most solid and reliable car for the most competitive price and, in view of the large amount of traveling ahead of me, the Mercedes seemed the wisest choice. It would have been considerably more difficult, and infinitely more expensive, to have bought an imported Lincoln or even a but, in retrospect it might have been a safer investment. American names do not raise the eyebrows of American judges. My next basic need was a place to live. I decided to rent a furnished apartment but I soon found that the prices were astronomical and, in view of the fact that I wanted to establish a permanent base, prohibitively expensive. Buying an apartment seemed a much better investment both in terms of real estate and in the context of my business in Europe. There was also a much wider choice of available property and a greater variation in prices. For a twenty-five thousand dollar down-payment the bank approved a fifty thousand dollar mortgage
226
THE FRAME-UP
which allowed me to take immediate possession of a modest, comfortable home in a quiet area of The Hague. Now by and large, Dutch people had never struck me as particularly small in stature but their houses tended to be tiny and cramped and I knew that if I were to enjoy anything like the space I'd been accustomed to in America a few walls would have to disappear. What was more, I would certainly have to entertain potential customers there and it seemed absurd that the head of a multi-million dollar enterprise should welcome guests to a well-located, beautifully-furnished dog-house. This resulted in my spending another thirty-five thousand dollars. I was now making rapid inroads into the royalties that had advanced but I knew that if I didn't make good use of the cash while it was available, there was a pretty good chance that it would gradually trickle away into the CBA account. Before there were any further demands, I wired Kamal Laraqui a further fifty thousand dollars to secure the penthouse in Casablanca that I had so much admired during my stay there with Myriam. Thanks to that, I now had a base on three continents. Last, but inevitably not least, I had to wire thirty thousand dollars to CBA to take care of an urgent cash shortage. I hadn't been in Holland more than a few days and already seventy-five percent of Peter's check had been invested. While I was waiting for the improvements on my apartment to be asked me to move in with her and her boyfriend completed, Kees. On the face of it, it seemed a slightly unusual arrangement but there wasn't very much by way of an alternative and my relationship and Kees certainly strengthened as a result. with was essentially a non-active partner in their travel agency, leaving most of the work to Kees, and she was able to accompany me, and advise me, on my shopping expeditions. Although Kees was undoubtedly a hard worker, he always seemed to able to meet us after working hours mostly in some downtown bar. Kees knew his business back to front. He always had a million stories to tell and a bottomless fund of advice to offer any visitor to his country. The first bit of advice he offered me regarded the nightlife. "It's something you really shouldn't miss," he said. "In fact I'm sure you'd be amazed just how many people come here specifically for that. You ought to bear it in mind in your business dealings: a lot of
227
PRIVATE SCREENING
your customers and contacts will more or less expect to be shown our red-light district." And so I became a night-owl. Thanks to and Kees though 'thanks' is probably not the most appropriate word - I developed into something of a connoisseur of Holland's bars and nightclubs. No evening was complete if we didn't visit at least two and most of our nocturnal excursions involved a serious, in-depth evaluation of considerably more. Kees, in particular, did not consider an evening complete unless he'd had the opportunity to conduct a qualitative and quantitative analysis of the beer supplied by at least three or four bars. This was not so interesting for me since Perrier water tended to taste the same wherever I was. It was on one such excursion that Kees pushed open the door of an innocent looking establishment in an equally innocent side-street. "You ever heard of the International House?" he asked. "You mean the pancake restaurants?" I replied. Kees laughed. It was a strange laugh. It wasn't the sort of laugh you associate with pancake restaurants. After we entered, it took only a few seconds for me to realize that they were not selling pancakes there at all. The barman approached us. "Hoi, Kees! kits achter de rits?" We took a seat at the bar and Kees ordered a beer for himself and a Perrier for me. Behind us, a hard-core porno film was being shown and beautiful girls sat in small groups. As far as I could see, they appeared to be sorted according to hair, skin-color, size, shape and virtually any category possible. There were Nordic ice-queens, African princesses, French gamines, 'Rubenesque' Dutch girls, delicate Indonesian beauties, leather-clad Austrian mistresses, wholesome Debbie Reynolds look-alikes and more square meters of naked flesh than could be seen on most beaches. The barman's familiarity had surprised me. In most bordellos the customers sometimes go to extraordinary lengths to preserve their anonymity. Here both the barman and Kees himself seemed to regard their surroundings as no different to any other bar in the street. However here the scenery was radically different and neither Kees nor I were immune to it. I soon noticed that he was staring at the black girls always his preference and I have to admit to having sneaked more than one look at the blondes.
228
THE FRAME-UP
"Lot's of people just come here to have a drink and leave," said Kees casually. "It's like any other bar really. Only be careful not to smile." "What?" I asked. "Look, Bill. In most bars you see a pretty girl and you smile at her. I mean you smile first, right? Not here. Here the girl smiles at you first and if you smile back she thinks she's in business. Next thing you know she'll have her arms round you and two minutes later she'll be dragging you upstairs. Of course if that's what you want it's up to you, but just be warned, okay?" "Okay," I gulped and fixed my Perrier with a stony glare. I had nothing against the Perrier it just seemed like the safest thing to do under the circumstances. It wasn't long before I caught Kees smiling at a girl. She came over immediately. Eva was a beautiful, blonde Polish girl about 22 or 23 years old who had slipped through the Iron Curtain to exploit western capitalist males. Kees bought her a drink and we chatted together for a few minutes. I expected her to drag him away at any moment but in the event it turned out that Kees had only used her as a roundabout way of approaching another girl. The girl in question was, of course, black. As soon as Kees pointed her out, the Polish girl brought her over and disappeared discreetly. So too did Kees and the black girl. I decided to get intimate with my Perrier. Sure, I was tempted to follow Kees' example but he'd already told me that relations with the girls could only take place through the intermediary of a condom and that had been enough to put me off the idea entirely. As it turned out, my decision was a good one. A few minutes later entered and sat down beside me. "Kees left a message at the last bar you visited," she explained. "I knew I'd find you here." "Don't you mind?" I asked, imagining that she'd probably take a dim view of Kees' adventure. "Why should I?" she replied. "To tell you the truth, I don't know what he does up there: he's been impotent ever since his last business went bust and that's few years ago now. Whatever he does with them, it seems to keep him happy though." For an American, there were one or two unusual things about Holland. Coming from a country where the automobile is king it was difficult to get used to a different set of priorities. Driving in The Hague could be pretty frustrating when you had to give way to trams, buses,
229
PRIVATE SCREENING
bicycles and pedestrians. At a busy intersection it was best to bring a packed lunch and a good book since, by the time it was your turn to move away, half the population of the city had already had theirs. Bicycles were not only a problem behind the wheel of a car but also away from it. Walking in any of the larger cities meant constantly dodging an endless stream of cyclists who had clearly been trained by the Japanese army before 1945. Even ordering a snack was a risky business. A beef sandwich turned out to contain wafer-thin strips of meat hiding between thick slabs of bread and there was always the additional possibilityof finding the entire contents of a market-garden padding it out. However, eating one of these in your car was no problem at all: first of all you had plenty of time to do it and secondly, owing to the complete absence of anything resembling mayonnaise, relish or sauce and the huge amount of bread, any spillage could be easily vacuumed up. One of the things I immediately liked about Holland was its people. You just had to look at their faces to see an innocence and candor for which you will search in vain in American cities. In the United States you walk down the street constantly aware that absolutely anything can happen to you and most will. In Holland you can walk almost anywhere secure in the knowledge that you'll arrive at your destination unmolested, uninjured and with a smile on your face. Even the whorehouse we had visited had not been located in some sleazy alleyway but in a respectable, residential area of The Hague and, for all I knew, the girls who worked there probably lived in the neighboring houses. In general, there was a tolerance and an acceptance of anybody and anything and I had never come across that before. A foreigner was not an object of ridicule or someone you took advantage of, but simply another guy in the street, another potential customer or even a potential friend. He was not expected to speak Dutch. Why should he be? Outside Holland the language, or at least a version of it, was only spoken in South Africa and on one or two obscure Caribbean islands. Almost everyone spoke English anyway. Most of the TV programs were imported from English-speaking countries and the only films that were ever dubbed into Dutch instead of being subtitled were intended for kindergarten kids. In view of the time difference between the west coast of the United States and Holland, most of my communications arrived in the form of faxes which I would receive the following morning when I arrived at my office. If these required my immediate attention, Dennis, or any of
230
THE FRAME-UP
my customers, knew that I could be reached by telephone. In fact it was ironic that, although I was now several thousand miles away, it was easier to get in touch with me than when I'd been in Los Angeles. There I had frequently been stuck in traffic-jamsfor hours on end without the benefit of a car-phone. Now, even technical designs could easily be communicated back and forth between my mold-makers or any of my customers around the world. On many occasions I would be talking to one of my business contacts and simultaneously faxing information to them. With a telephone and a fax-machine, I could communicate just as effectively as across a conference-table. Among these incoming messages were two that expressed a desire to get hold of me as soon as possible: from a Mr Murjahn of Germany and a certain Yehuda Olshansky of Israel. Both requested a personal meeting in Holland with a view to acquiring a license from me and I called them back immediately. went with me to meet Mr Waldemar Murjahn at the Park Hotel in The Hague. He was in his sixties and was accompanied by his daughter. It soon became clear that it had been she who had come across the collapsible bottle on a trip to America and had encouraged her father to enquire about the technology for the European market. Mr Murjahn was the retired chairman of a large department-store chain in Germany and owned several other companies, one of which was called Cavo Textile. Touzani," he said, "my experience in the German market extends from the manufacturing to the distribution and sales of a large number of consumer products. I've retired now and it would take quite a lot to persuade me to involve myself in anything new. However, I'm very interested in these containers of yours and I'd like to help you introduce them to the German market." Cavo Textile was, in spite of its name, a large distributor of electrical supplies but, because of its location just across the border from Holland, it had obvious attractions for me. "We aren't currently involved in the distribution of any household products," he continued. "However, if we can't do it ourselves we'll find the best people in Germany to do it for you." Mr Waldemar Murjahn sounded like a man of integrity and mon sense. I left several containers and brochures with him so that he could start some initial market research in Germany and I promised to stay in touch. I had felt bad that a man of Mr Murjahn's age had driven for three hours to come and talk to me when I would have lost no time in
231
PRIVATE SCREENING
going to see him myself for a matter of such importance. I didn't know what to think when Yehuda Olshansky asked me to meet him the following day at the Pullman Hotel in Amsterdam: he was to fly in from New York while his business partner was to arrive directly from Tel Aviv. After five years in the business, I had begun to develop an intuitive appreciation for those few people whom I knew were going to become part of the collapsible bottle family. Generally speaking, they could be typified by a willingness to put themselves to great, and in some cases quite unnecessary trouble to involve themselves in the business because, in some obscure way perhaps, they felt that they were helping to write a chapter of commercial history. It was not only the lure of potential profits that seemed to interest them but also the very idea of participating in a pioneering venture. Without even having met these two Israelis, I knew, as I drove to the meeting, that they were going to play an important part in the exploitation of my invention. What I did not know, however, was that our friendship and close cooperation were going to lead directly to a breakthrough in technology that would ultimately receive the prestigious gold star award of 1990 from the World Packaging Organization. Yehuda and Sammy were both around the same age as I in their early thirties. Yehuda had red hair and freckles and looked as if he was descended from eastern European stock while Sammy was dark with what could be loosely called a North African appearance. They were both smartly, though informally, dressed. They radiated a mixture of confidence and insecurity confidence in as much as they were highly motivated and full of energy and insecurity in that they clearly harbored the notion that they were ever so slightly out of their league. They weren't alone in feeling uncomfortable however. Although I was an American citizen both legally and by election I was, after all, nominally a native of Morocco. I had been born in a country which had long ago declared its opposition to the Zionist cause and I was suddenly uncertain as to whether I could actually do business with these people. While there was certainly no prejudice in business and even less in me, the Arab League had declared an embargo on all forms of commercial activity involving the state of Israel and I had no desire to see my North African business relations soured as a result of this new venture. Yehuda disarmed me almost immediately. While we had a drink in the hotel lobby, he told me that, not only did he have many Moroc-
232
THE FRAME-UP
can-Jewish friends both in Israel and the U.S. he also loved the idea of visiting Morocco. "YOU don't have to sweeten me," I said. "I don't want to marry you: I just want to do business with you. As far as I'm concerned, our religious beliefs don't enter into it." But there was a lot of me in Yehuda between us there was a chemistry that led me to believe in his sense of commitment and his willingness to take risks. Although I couldn't help noticing his lack of technical knowledge relatively to mine - he more than made up for that in his legal expertise. In fact the irony was that I was now wondering if my technical know-how was an edge at all. Wouldn't I have been better off if I'd been a lawyer? Had I known then what I know now, I wouldn't have hesitated to swap my technical experience for Yehuda's knowledge of the law. It wasn't the only difference between us: Yehuda was highly organized while I, to put it was inclined to be a little slap-dash. It wasn't an inherent part of my nature but an inevitable consequence of having to handle several widely-differing tasks simultaneously. Over dinner, in an Argentinian steak-house, I asked Sammy and Yehuda how they'd heard of the plastic bottle. "I saw this article in Business Week," explained Yehuda. He pulled it out of his brief-case and showed it to me. I'd seen it before. The first time had been over the shoulder of a fellow passenger in the course of a flight from Europe to the United States. At that time I hadn't even known that such an article had been written, let alone that it had been published in an international magazine aimed at businessmen the world over. Later I had noticed several other people on the plane reading it and I had made a few discreet enquiries as to what they thought of the product discreet because I didn't wish to reveal that I was its inventor. Would they have believed that the originator of such an undoubtedly successful product was sitting next to them in economy class? Yehuda had qualified as a lawyer and had worked for a while for the company belonging to his girlfriend's father. He had then taken very premature retirement from the legal profession to dedicate himself to a commercial future. Together, he and Sammy had established a business producing and marketing, of all things, mini-golf facilities and had already met with a high degree of success. On the subject of the potential market for the collapsible bottle, however, Yehuda was refreshingly frank.
233
PRIVATE SCREENING
"Look," he explained. "Israel is a small country. Even if the bottle is fantastically successful there it still won't bring in a lot of money. On the other hand we have the highest concentration of master's degree graduates anywhere in the world there are hundreds of engineers there who have little or nothing to do. And then there are our research facilities. In short we have the expertise and the technology to conduct just about any research and development project you can imagine. Many international companies are already taking advantage of it." Unknown to Yehuda, this was exactly what I wanted to hear: R D facilities had posed one of my major headaches since the inception of CBA. I had been approached by several people in the past who had asked me for a licensing agreement for Israel but I had always been rather dismissive of what I felt was a very minor side-show. The promise of R D, however, changed all that. "There's an show coming up in Atlanta next month," I said. "If you can make it, we can discuss a licensing deal and a Research and Development agreement. You can also meet the rest of the family and that'll be your best way of monitoring the level of our accomplishment to date." I didn't doubt for a moment that they would be there but deferring any agreements seemed like a good way of testing their degree of commitment.
234
13 . MINUTE MAID
It was now possible to tell European customers that I had established a firm foothold in their continent and that they had no further cause for concern regarding the technical support which, in the past, would have had to have been provided from ten thousand miles away. On a personal level, however, I continued to feel insecure regarding my residence there. The renovation of my apartment was not yet completed and I was still staying with Tammy and Kees. In the future, no doubt, I would finally be able to call my new place home but, right then, I felt unsettled. I was still awaiting a further two hundred and fifty thousand dollars from Peter Willis and, as I had to return to the States anyway for the upcoming Interbev show, I left the remaining hands and arrangements regarding my apartment in returned to California. Back in San Diego I lost no time in contacting Peter about the outstanding royalty fee. He was not exactly pleased to receive my call and, without going into further details, he asked me to fly to San Francisco for a meeting. I was pretty apprehensive about this: whatever was on Peter's mind had to be very serious indeed if he was unwilling to discuss it over the phone. But with a quarter of a million bucks at stake I was more than ready to invest a few dollars in a plane ticket. Within a matter of hours, I was sitting in the passenger seat of Peter's BMW as we sped across the San Mateo bridge to his offices in Belmont. It was a trip that I had made on several occasions in the past but then I had always known why I was going there and what my contribution was expected to be. Now Peter's behavior brought a whole new meaning to the expression 'tight-lipped' in fact if his lips had been any tighter they'd have imploded. When we were finally in his office, he called in Steve his vice-president, Tim his C.F.O. and another man whose face was unfamiliar. "You haven't met before, Bill," said Peter, accurately, "but this is Rick. He'll be in charge of the one hundred percent juice category."
235
PRIVATE SCREENING
We shook hands. "Welcome to the family," I said. "You new to this business?" Rick smiled. "No. I've been in juice for a few years now." "I'm surprised your skin isn't wrinkled," I replied. "Who were you with before you joined Peter?" "Minute Maid." My own smile faded abruptly. I shot a worried look at Rick's new boss. "You mean you stole one of their people?" I exclaimed. "I hope you realize what this means, Peter. You just declared war on them." "That's about the size of it," he replied, casually. "Rick here was one of their senior marketing executives. I think it shows just how seriously we're taking this new initiative, don't you?" "I can't argue with you there," I admitted. "Minute Maid has been aware of your products for at least a couple of years," said Rick. "We followed your every move in every show you attended. I must say, you gave us quite a scare." I shook my head in disbelief. "Then why the hell didn't Minute Maid do something about it? All it would have taken is a reasonable offer. Instead they made a lot of inquiries and never followed up. As it is, Peter here now has the exclusive rights for this category and Minute Maid is permanently out of the game. "Who can fathom the corporate mind?" sighed Rick. "To tell you the truth, that's one of the reasons why I left them. They're just too damned slow." "So Minute Maid's loss was your gain," I said to Peter. "Well, you've really taken the plunge now." "I was too excited by your concepts," he replied. "I decided it was time to beat the big guys at their own game." "Don't you feel that you're taking a big risk?" "Absolutely. The bigger the risk, the greater the rewards." "And the risk comes from my bottle, right?" "Wrong. The risk comes from the strength of the competition. I've no doubts about the bottle. Do you honestly think I'd be fool enough to stand up to the Coca-Cola Company if I had the slightest doubt about the quality of the product?" sure hope not." "You'd better believe it! I've done my homework, Bill."
236
THE FRAME-UP
"For the first time ever," Rick added, "the American consumer is showing a preference for reconstituted orange juice. Okay, so it's bulky - but the customer seems to mind that less than having to dilute a frozen pack himself. It's not that he's too lazy to add water it's more that he has to wait for the juice to thaw out and then find an empty bottle to put the stuff in. One of your collapsed bottles takes up roughly the same amount of space as the old container. The advantage is obvious." "There's another advantage," continued Peter. "Once you expand the bottle, the inside ridges formed by the bellows act as a mixing device. All the customer has to do is half-fill it, shake it and then top it up." "We already conducted a supermarket test with refrigerated concentrate," said Rick. "Take a look at these photographs." He handed me a stack of prints. I thumbed through them quickly. The test had been done using one hundred percent apple juice concentrate and the consumer seemed more than satisfied with the results. "I think we're on the verge of a breakthrough, Bill," said Peter. "We're talking about a multi-billion dollar market here and if your bottle gains acceptance with the customer as we expect it to do - it won't just be fruit-juice that's shaken. We expect big trouble from the market- leaders. They're not going to take this lying down." "You mean dirty tricks?"I asked. "It's been done before," replied Rick. "We're dealing with a premium adult market here. We're also dealing with supermarkets that have a limited amount of refrigerated storage. It's common practice to pay to reserve space for your products and that makes a perfect environment for less official payments." "Commercial bribery?" "Let's just say that money can pass under the table as easily as over it.'' "That's what declaring war means," said Peter. "We're going to need all our financial resources to survive. That's why we have to make a choice between going after this new market in America or extending our present operation to Europe." "It seems to me that you've already chosen," I said. "As far as I can see, you've made the right choice too. A bird in the hand is worth two in a bush, as they say. I guess I can kiss goodbye to my quarter of a million dollars, huh?" Peter gave an embarrassed shrug.
237
PRIVATE SCREENING
"I only wish I'd known about this earlier," I continued. "I spent the last quarter million on setting up my European operation and part of the reason why I did that was to help you guys over here. have to wait, I suppose." I returned to La Jolla with the familiar mixture of conflicting emotions that I had grown to live with over recent years. I was naturally saddened to be denied a much-needed financial resource but, at the same time, I was happy that I was working with people who shared my dream. In the past I had often been disappointed with Peter's failure to keep his promises, with his tendency to shoot too far ahead of himself and set himself unattainable goals, but I could understand his motives and I could never really blame him. Not for doing his best. Back home once more, I began to go through the latest inquiries from prospective customers and it was in doing this that I came across one from a company by the name of Sonoco. The name rang a bell but I couldn't quite place it. I finally traced Sonoco in a directory of U.S. corporations - they turned out to be the world leader in the manufacturing of composite, cardboard-based canisters. The same canisters that were used for packaging frozen-juice concentrate. The market was beginning to panic already. Although I had expected as much, I called Sonoco at their corporate headquarters in Huntsville, Georgia, in an attempt to clarify the situation. Jim, their marketing director, sounded very friendly and very southern. "Ah must say, Bill," he drawled, "that we're extremely interested in your collapsible containers extremely interested. We here are the biggest users o' polyethylene plastic in the world for motor-oil jerrycans mostly. We are also the world leader in the manufacture composite cans. Ah'd like very much for you to come visit us down here and sample some of our southern hospitality." "As long as I don't have to eat grits and pick cotton," I replied. "Ah think we can spare you that, Bill," said Jim. "Ah was more o' high level meetin's. From the info'mation ah received about you, ah would say you were a gennelman of persistence and vision. Ah may say that ah mahself am an inventor an unwillin' inventor like you. Ah made mah own breakthrough in jus' the same way you did." "Don't tell me you've been playing with coke bottles too." I heard Jim chuckle.
238
THE FRAME-UP
"Believe me, Bill," he said, "that's exactly how ah came across my be honored to tell you more once you get here. invention and Now how about if we send our company jet to bring you? At your convenience, o' course." have to check on our own jet "I don't know, Jim," I replied. first. But I think it needs a new rubber band." After this discussion, I met with Dennis and Michael and we all came to the conclusion that we were on the verge of a packaging revolution as far as the one hundred percent juice category was concerned. For a meeting of this importance, I certainly wanted Michael Hudson at my side. "Over my dead body!" exclaimed Dennis. "Now there's a tempting thought!" I muttered to myself. "No way, Michael!" continued Dennis. "I've been here an awful lot longer than you and it's near my girlfriend's place in Nashville. I can stop off and visit her." I didn't think the situation merited an argument so I let it ride. I was less interested in who was coming with me than I was in the fact that Jim might carry out his threat to send the company jet. I didn't trust semi-professional airlines and I had decided long since that if I couldn't go somewhere by commercial flights I wouldn't go at all. And so I flew to Charleston, South Carolina, in the company of Dennis Lawrence. There we rented a car and drove for nearly two hours to Huntsville, Georgia. Huntsville was not a large town and neither of us imagined that Sonoco would be difficult to locate. In the event it took far longer than we anticipated. Narrow, winding roads took us through several residential areas and I soon began to wonder why a multi-billion dollar company was not located more conveniently. Finally we were told to follow the railroad tracks and it became apparent that there was a good deal of method in Sonoco's madness: they were dealing in high-volume production and it was far more important for them to be near the railroad than the Federal Express office. Jim met us at reception and took us to meet the company president. From there we were led to a conference room that had been set aside for us and where half a dozen executives were waiting. I was asked detailed questions about my licensees and our future markets and it was soon clear to them that their composite can and its proprietory technology were very much under threat. You could see it in their faces.
239
PRIVATE SCREENING
"Gentlemen," I said, "there may be no real cause for concern. Although Peter has exclusivity on our bottle for that juice category, he's also allowed to sub-license the technology to others. I can see no reason why he should hold onto it if all of the old-timers are going to go after him. The most I can do is to advise him of your interest - the rest is up to him. I wish there was something else I could do for you but I'm afraid that's it. I think you'll have to face the unpleasant fact that you had the chance to beat him to it but you preferred to be over-cautious." Just as we were due to leave, the chairman of the company stopped by our room. He was a gentle, courteous man in his seventies. He approached me directly and shook me by the hand. "I'm very happy to meet you," he said. "I've heard a lot about you. I'm sorry i couldn't join you for the meeting but I knew you were in good hands." From his age, I guessed that the chairman no longer took much of an active part in the running of the company. This was soon confirmed by Jim. "Ah only hope you realize how honored you are that he came here to shake your hand," he said. "Especially at this stage in the proceedings. He has a weakness for pioneers and inventors." "Is that why you have a special place in his heart?" I asked. "Because of your invention? Why don't you tell me more about it?" Jim gave a shrug of self-depreciation. "Maybe over dinner." He escorted us to a hotel where Dennis and I checked in and left our luggage and then took us to a nearby restaurant. I was impatient to know what exactly Jim had invented but he certainly didn't seem to be in a great hurry to tell me. Finally, however, he seemed well enough at ease to recall how it had all come about. "Well," he said, leaning back in his chair, "ah'd been fiddling with Coke bottles - jus' like you. Ah sliced 'em up one day, filled 'em with tennis balls and thought to mahself 'Why shouldn't containers for tennis balls be made with the same technology as soft drink bottles?' When they stretch the preforms to make these bottles it naturally rounds off the extremity. At that point all you need to do is slice it from the top, fill it and stick a cap on it." "Hey, wait a minute!" I said. "I know those things. You mean the transparent sausages filled with tennis balls? They're everywhere these days!" Jim smiled.
240
THE FRAME-UP
"It's no big deal really," he said. "Ah only told you so's you'd see that what started out as a simple observation ended up as a multi-million dollar business." "Balls," nodded Dennis. "Precisely," agreed Jim. "An' ah'm the man behind 'em." "Well, I'm not going to ask you if you got rich out of it," I said. "I outgrew that sort of question a while back. But what's the biggest change you've been through since then?" "Ah'll certainly say ah haven't done badly out of it," said Jim, "but you're right, Bill. Money ain't everything. Ah was a happy man before ah started fiddlin' with bottles and ah'm a happy man now. Sooner or later ah'll die and the whole thing'll go into the history books. It'll only be some footnote tucked away in a corner maybe, but it'll be there all the same. For me, that's the best reward. Immortality."
A few days after my return from Huntsville, Yehuda Olshansky arrived to conclude the agreement for Israel that we had discussed a month earlier in Holland. He brought his girlfriend along for the trip. Rather more surprising was that he also brought his girlfriend's parents with him and more surprising still was that they all came to the meeting. "This is Mr Abadi," said Yehuda, indicating his prospective fatherin-law. "He's a businessmen from Venezuela. He wanted to look at your invention and evaluate its potential for South America." Mr Abadi, despite being a Venezuelan-Israeli, bore a more than passing resemblance to Mr Leonid Illyich Brezhnev, the former president of the Soviet Union and slightly less former human being. From the way he was dressed, and the way he acted, I concluded that he was not exactly short of a dollar. This made me eager to learn more about him: after all, Israel was a very small market while South America, with a population of roughly half a billion people, was an extremely large one. My patents had been pending in most of those countries and the protection of my technology was imminent. This was music to Mr Abadi's ears. Touzani," he said. "I own some of the largest firms in South America. I also represent some of the major corporations in the world down there: Boeing, Fisher, A.T. T. to name but three." I almost fell off my chair. In fact, Mr Abadi didn't stop at three. As the list got longer my eyes got wider and my breath got shorter. Why should such a man bother with my bottles?
241
PRIVATE SCREENING
But I had known for a while that anybody that came in touch with the bottle would not easily let go again. It tended to be treated as much more than a mere business venture: people seemed to take a great interest in meeting the inventor and learning about its development. They usually ended up wanting to be a part of it and Mr Abadi, for all his wealth and power, seemed no exception. "If you'll let me be your exclusive licensee for South America," he concluded, promise to do my best not to disappoint you." "Would you be taking my license because you want to or because your grandchildren would want you to?" I asked. I could see that this was not the sort of question that Mr Abadi was accustomed to hearing. He eyed me curiously and then smiled. "Because my grandchildren would want me to," he replied. Mr Abadi wrote out a check for ten thousand dollars and was given a letter of intent for South America at a fee of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year plus royalties. A large as this sum might s appear, it was a small investment in view of the size of the potential market. What was more, Mr Abadi would benefit from several existing suppliers and sources of research and development - including his own future son-in-law. Yehuda himself walked away with an agreement for Israel. He was to pay a single fee of fifty thousand dollars in return for an entire patent which would give him the authority to develop collapsible containers as well as any other hollow articles. In addition he was given an R D agreement entitling him to three percent commission on any royalties that I or CBA would eventually make, should any of his original developments prove marketable. I knew that profits from the Israeli market would be fairly negligible and so I asked Yehuda to donate his annual royalty fee to Interns for Peace - a charity which aimed at promoting peace and friendship between Israeli Jews and Arab children. I must admit that there was a secondary motive for this philanthropic gesture I had no great desire to be pursued to the end of my days by some crazed Muslim fundamentalist hit-squad, intent on punishing me for doing business with the Great Satan. Once the agreements were concluded, Yehuda shook his head in disbelief. "I wouldn't have thought it possible," he said. "I never thought I'd see the day when as shrewd a businessman as Mr Abadi would walk into a place more or less as a tourist and write out a ten thousand dol-
242
THE FRAME-UP
lar check not twenty minutes later. Not to mention taking on the responsibility of selling a new technology to half a billion people." "Perhaps that's why he's a shrewd businessman," I said, smiling towards the older man. "He's quick to judge the value of a project." "Maybe so," agreed Mr Abadi. "But I think you do yourself a disservice, Mr Touzani: you're a very effective salesman. I could use people like you in my organization. Actually now that I come to think of it it isn't salesmanship so much as preaching. There's an almost religious fervor in what you say." "I'm selling my own creation," I replied. "I guess it's a sort of evangelism."
I endorsed Mr Abadi's ten thousand dollar check to CBA to cover any expenses I might have run up on their behalf. "This brings your total loan to CBA up to one hundred and fifteen thousand dollars," said Dennis. "It means you're now even with the money you borrowed from the company. Frankly, I must say I'm surprised you manage to keep your loans and your expenses balanced out. It's quite a juggling act you've got going." "There's no other way of doing it," I replied. "Just don't forget that it's your job to see that everything is accounted for."
Although Peter new initiative and the agreements reached with Yehuda and Mr Abadi were all of great importance, I had more immediate and pressing concerns: the show was about to begin and there were several new molds for larger containers that were about to be tested at the Bison factory. This was to tie me up in Los Angeles for quite a few days. I spent most of my nights at van den house. Although I was always welcome there, this was far from an ideal situation and it gave me the final impetus to do what I had considered doing for a long time purchasing a motor home. I didn't have a great deal of spare time to spend nosing around for a bargain but, as it turned out, one fell into my lap almost by accident. I was out on some routine business when I happened to spot a customized El Dorado on the outskirts of San a futuristic vehicle which I later discovered had been used in the making of a few movies. Despite its almost new condition, the dealer was advertising it for sale at a fraction of its original cost. I bought it for thirty seven thousand dollars, put four thousand down and agreed to pay four hundred a
243
PRIVATE SCREENING
month only slightly more than CBA was paying for Dennis' luxurious Lincoln The advantages of my motor home were immediate. At the Bison factory, clients were offered roughly ten square feet of waiting space. Since their company policy restricted access to the shop floor to Bison employees only, I had always been obliged to sit in this tiny, cramped area for hours at a time awaiting the results of the latest tests. Bison claimed that this restriction of access was a stipulation of their new insurance policy but, as one of their VIP customers, I suspected that they could have easily bent the rules in my favor had they really wanted to. However, since they first started producing the collapsible bottle, Bison had made a large investment in new and innovative blow-molding equipment and it seemed far more likely that they were afraid I might disclose their secrets to my customers and thus to their competitors. It was absurd that I, perhaps their most important client, was obliged to sit around for hours in uncomfortable surroundings and wait for them to relay information to me that I could otherwise have easily obtained at first hand. Now, however, I was able to park my mobile home outside and wait in comfort. The El Dorado was equipped with TV, cooking facilities and a spacious living-area. I could spend the night in it, if necessary, and also entertain members of the Bison staff. In fact space at the factory was at such a premium that Jack Keller, the owner, also had a motor home in the parking lot. It was something of a bone of contention between us that my El Dorado was twice as big and considerably better-appointed than his customized Chevy, in spite of the fact that I had paid the same price. I was proud of my purchase. It was the first time in my life, and certainly the first time since starting CBA, that I owned something that could be termed luxurious. On the practical side, I was now no longer reliant on hotel accommodations and, particularly in view of the modest repayment arrangements on the El Dorado, this meant a considerable financial saving. In addition CBA now had a mobile headquarters which was soon to show its value at the show: I could hold meetings and entertain prospective clients away from the hustle and bustle of the exhibition floor. Many other participants also used motor homes for similar purposes. A secondary, but nonetheless, significant consideration was that I made the mobile home available to all CBA employees as a recreational vehicle when it was not in professional use. Entertainment had previously been a bit thin on the ground for all of us.
244
THE FRAME-UP
'88 in Atlanta was just as popular as in previous years and our booth was no less impressive. The only notable difference was that the SCAT team Rodney Commons, Greg Freeman, Carlos Royal and Max Hollis - who had spent most of the Chicago show trying to hijack our customers, were not present. The South American market which had once been their province was now being handled by Mr Abadi's Venezuelan corporation and our brochures had been adjusted accordingly. His future son-in-law, Yehuda Olshansky, was assisting in the booth: we both thought it was the best possible experience he could have before committing himself full-time to the project. Apart from these changes, nothing much was different to the previous shows. Many of the same people who had seen us year after year came along to say their ritual 'hello'. The same invitations that we'd received before were issued again and the same media coverage came from roughly the same journalists. However, just as I was getting used to the idea that the show was going to pass off relatively uneventfully, something happened which cast a shadow over the entire proceedings. "Mr Touzani?" A small, brown, impeccably-dressed man had stepped into our booth and was offering me his hand to shake. "Yes? I don't think I...." "My name is Shastri," said the man. "Rajkumari Shastri of Bombay, India. We met at the Chicago show last year. I picked up some of your brochures." "Ah, yes! Mr Shastri!" I exclaimed, not remembering him at all. "What can I do for you?" "I'm not sure you can do anything for me," he replied cryptically. "Perhaps, on the other hand, I can do something for you. You see, having read through the brochures I picked up last year, I contacted the C.C.I. company in California - as per the address indicated. A certain Mr Freeman tried to sell me the rights to produce and market your collapsible bottle in the Indian subcontinent. He was asking three quarters of a million dollars a year." "Was he indeed?" "To tell you the truth, Mr Touzani, I was a little put off by his attitude. He sounded more like what you Americans would call a wheelerdealer than a serious businessman - the sort of chap who's here today and gone tomorrow if you see what I mean. Of course I am still interested in acquiring a license for India but I would much rather deal directly with you, if that were possible."
245
PRIVATE SCREENING
To say that I was shocked by what Mr Shastri had said would be pretty much an understatement. C.C.I. stood for Collapsible Container International. At Rodney Commons' insistence, I had mentioned it in show as the mailing address for my leaflets for the previous the SCAT investors who had breached their license over six months earlier and had subsequently filed a lawsuit against CBA, Dennis Lawrence, Jeims Deimen and myself. Their initial complaint that I had ensnared them by means of false verbal promises - had now been amended to include the allegation that the Hollow Articles patent, for which they had been licensed, had no technical merits and therefore no commercial value. This had resulted in their abandoning their filings to me and suing Jeims Deimen for complicity. It now appeared that they considered the patent of sufficient value to attempt to license it to others. "Mr Shastri," I said. "Do you still have any of the correspondence you received from Mr Freeman?" "Yes. I do." He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a file. I couldn't believe what I read. Rodney Commons and Greg Freeman had been issuing offers for the territories for which they had previously been licensed up to the month before and, for all I knew, they were continuing to do so. There was even a professionally-printed offering document listing all fifty-five countries for which they were selling marketing and manufacturing rights - independent of each other - to a total value of over thirty million dollars. Most ironic of all were other documents sent to Mr Shastri drawing his attention to the technical superiority and commercial value of the Hollow Articles patent. I showed the documents to Dennis and Michael. They were as stunned as I. According to the papers, Mr Shastri was by no means alone in being offered a licensingdeal: others were being negotiated for Brazil, Argentina, Saudi Arabia and even countries that had never been granted to SCAT, such as Australia,Japan and Holland. Not only were the SCAT partners attempting to deal in rights that they had voluntarily abandoned but they were also trying to sell rights that they had never had. As if this were not enough, Mr bombshell was closely followed by another. Several people who stopped by our booth showed us computer printouts of searches conducted by their patent attorneys in which SCAT was listed as Mr international licensee. Two months after Rodney Commons had declared that our agreement was
246
THE FRAME-UP
worthless and illegal, he had registered SCAT with the U.S. Patent Office in Virginia in order to intercept all international inquiries referring to my inventions. As sickening as these revelations were, they promised to be invaluable. In response to lawsuit, we had filed a cross-complaint accusing Rodney Commons and his partners of causing CBA and myself damage to the tune of one hundred and twenty million dollars. Thanks to Mr Shastri and others, we now had irrefutable proof. It was a hollow victory however: the knowledge that we had right on our side was small compensation for the harm and embarrassment activities were causing us. Yehuda Olshansky's reaction to the news was typical of what we could expect if it reached the ears of our existing and potential licensees. "Holy shit!" he groaned. "Wait till Abadi hears this. He'll flay me alive. Then he'll disinherit me." "We can't let them get away with this," growled Dennis. "Believe me," I replied. bring these people to justice if it's the last thing I do." Dennis, bless him, did his best to make me keep my vow. In July 1990, only eighteen months later, the SCAT case came to court. A few days after that my patents, and my life, were not worth a dime. This was our fourth InterBev in a row. Where our first show had concentrated on establishing our presence and our second and third shows had merely shown that, against all the odds, we were still hanging in, InterBev '88 showed everyone that we were there to stay. Our technology was proven and our product had finally gained customer acceptance. The highlight came when a senior delegation from the Japanese company Mitsubishi came to visit us and could not hide an interest in wishing to represent us back home. Such was their fascination with our product that CBA and I were soon in daily contact with them. We were also honored by a visit from the president of Minute Maid who, no less than two years before, had first expressed interest in using the bottle in its one hundred percent juice concentrate application. Sadly, of course, this renewed interest had come too late and I was obliged to give him a gentle push in the direction of Peter InterBev '88 certainly marked a watershed in the fortunes of CBA. We now not only regarded ourselves as part of the establishment: it was clear that we were regarded in the same way by everyone else in
247
PRIVATE SCREENING
the beverage industry. This was, after all, our fourth successive participation; almost one hundred million containers had been sold; we had a permanent office in California; the collapsible bottle was beginning to spread beyond the boundaries of the United States; finally, a European office was now open for business. When the show came to an end there was none of the mad scramble of previous years. We were not immediately inundated with requests for samples and further information by speculators anxious to jump on the latest packaging bandwagon. Now our customers knew where they could find us and they knew that we would still be there, working out of the same offices, whenever they needed us. They could enjoy their Christmas vacation in peace and so could we. By now, Cavo Textile had decided that the collapsible bottle deserved to be handled by a better-qualified company and therefore, without even putting our relationship under contract, they had recommended the German Melitta company as our best bet. Melitta is known to everyone around the world for its coffee filters. Indeed, they were the pioneers of the gasketted paper filter, for which they held several patents. As these were on the point of expiring, they had decided to diversify into a number of different products. With an active houseware division, and a juice division, they were perfectly qualified to handle the bottle at that time. Cavo, however, were to coordinate our meetings and be part of any eventual agreement we entered into. A meeting was scheduled for the end of the year.
I left for Europe shortly before Christmas. This was very much a 'dead' period businesswise and it would allow me a little free time to relax and check on the progress of my apartment in The Hague. The only business scheduled was my meeting with Melitta which justified the trip in itself. It was again my unofficial chauffeur, who picked me up - this time in my own car - and we drove away to my own home. I found that the apartment was almost entirely furnished in oak and leather with a king-sized bed and a fully-equipped kitchen. It was a strange feeling to enter what you might call an 'instant had gone to considerable trouble to supply everything home'. I needed down to the last detail and she was clearly so satisfied with her work that she had moved into the guest-room. moved back to her own house after my arrival, Although I was increasingly aware that was trying to build some sort of
248
THE FRAME-UP
nent relationship. While I certainly enjoyed her company, I had no wish to gain an instant wife to match my instant home. I tried to make it clear, as diplomatically as possible, that though I had absolutely no objection to our having fun together, she was finally not really my My meeting with Mr Murjahn and his general manager, Mr and Melitta's general manager for the houseware division, took place hotel in downtown Diisseldorf:a convenient location for in the all parties. The Melitta representative assured me of their continued interest in the project and asked me to prepare the terms of the contract for their evaluation and provide them with the price-list of the products which were available for immediate import. The meeting left me full of optimism: I returned to The Hague and to my office at Europa Reizen to report to Michael Hudson and instruct him to write an option agreement for Melitta. The secretaries at Europa Reizen had spent a lot of time on my business typing letters to European customers, receiving correspondence and taking down messages for me. At two thousand dollars a month, Kees and were more than happy to provide me with such services. I realized, however, that for a similar amount I could hire my own full-time secretary and I decided to place an ad in a newspaper. I was trying to draft my advertisement when Kees happened to pass my desk. "Can you do me a favor?" I asked. "Sure," he said. "Tell me what you think of this." He looked it over. "It's okay," he said, grudgingly. "I'd include something about a driver's license though." A " driver's license? I want a secretary, not a chauffeur," I said. "It's just a way of weeding them out. Without that you're going to be swamped with applications from fifteen, sixteen year-old bimbos looking for a good time. You have to be eighteen to get a license here and even then you've got to go through a lot of hassle and expense." "But I've put here 'age twenty-two to twenty-eight'," I protested. "That won't stop them. Believe me." The ad that Kees finally put in De Telegraaf a national Dutch newspaper - read:
American businessman with offices in The Hague and California is seeking a
249
PRIVATE SCREENING
SECRETARY for reception and office work. Some travel involved, good knowledge of English, drivers-license, age 28. Please reply: CBA-USA-Inc., 070-504115. Joh. v. neveltlaan 6, The Hague Most of the applications I received came from girls in their early twenties. I had expected maybe a dozen or so but the final tally, between Christmas and New Year, came to something like two hundred including several men. At the end of the first day following the appearance of the ad, the permanent secretaries at Europa Reizen complained that they had spent most of their time answering calls for me. viewed the Nor were they the only unhappy people there: entire exercise as little more than an insult. Why, she thought, was I going to so much trouble to find a secretary when she would have been more than willing to have filled the post herself. Although she did help me test the girls' typing skills, it was a very grudging cooperation: she considered herself far more eligible than any of the other candidates and could not understand why I was passing her over. In fact the only person who seemed happy was Kees. He was genuinely amused by the entire situation and was full of curiosity as to how I, an American, would handle it. He began to hang around the office far more than usual and would often signal his approval or disapproval of a particular candidate. The next day I manned the switchboard myself and, on the days that followed, I spent most of my time arranging interviews, meeting girls at the train-station and finally interviewingthe short-listed candidates. Coming from America where a similar ad would have brought in a real hodge-podge of applicants I was amazed at the sort of response I received. When it finally came to interviewingthe girls, Europa Reizen began to look more like a model agency than a travel agency: I had never seen so many beautiful women gathered together in one place. In the end, I began to wonder if my ad might have suggested more than a simple secretarial job. When I was honest with myself, I realized that it did. I was finally ready for a relationship but this time I did not want one in which the girl had to come to terms with my business life after it had actually begun. Now she would approach me through my business and she would know from the start that, as far as I was concerned, it and myself were indivisible. wanted a secretary, also needed one that was on call twenty-four hours a day.
250
THE FRAME-UP
Finally there was only one candidate left. Anneke was tall, blonde, blue-eyed and devastatingly attractive. I met her off the train from Utrecht one evening she had come directly from work and we dined together in a Mexican restaurant where I went through my usual spiel: showing her brochures and a sample bottle and describing my business and the part she could expect to play in it. She showed unusual interest in my business and slightly more than unusual interest in me. Finally she disclosed that she had two or three days' holiday before New Year and asked me if I had any plans. "I was thinking of going to Paris," I replied. "Want to come along?" My trip to Paris turned out to be considerably more expensive than I'd envisaged. Certainly Anneke soon made it clear that I didn't have to worry about renting two hotel rooms and that I could save myself the trouble of asking for single beds. Unfortunately she was far more interested in looking around fashionable boutiques than in visiting museums or art-galleries and, as far as Anneke was concerned, the more expensive the shop, the more attractive she found it. It soon became obvious that she thought I was the archetypal rich American businessman and as soon as she caught a glimpse of my platinum credit-card the matter was settled. I tried my best to ignore her rather blunt hints about scarves and Gucci handbags but finally I succumbed to an expensive coat and considered that I had got off lightly at that. I decided that we ought to take in a show while we were there and Latin a well-known nightclub on the tried to get tickets for Le Left Bank. No luck. The only way that we stood any chance of getting in was to turn up at the box-office and see if there were any late cancellations. To my complete surprise, it turned out that there were. Not only that as soon as the waiter set his eyes on Anneke he obviously thought that seating us in a prominent position would be good for trade and we were shown to a table at the very front of the club from where we had an uninterrupted view of the stage and where everyone there could see us clearly. "Perhaps he thinks I'm Omar Sharif," I thought. "No, more likely he thinks Anneke is Madonna." It was quite apparent to me that Anneke considered the matter of the secretarial post settled. She seemed to think that her company was worth a price and that as long as I was prepared to pay it I could continue to enjoy her presence. I, however, had a different point of view: although I was by no means averse to having a relationship with my
251
PRIVATE SCREENING
secretary, I still needed a secretary more than a personal companion or a lover. Anneke was beautiful, sensuous and mercenary but she did not have the right degree of seriousness for the job. My last words to her were, 'I'll call you1. On my return to The Hague I found that a second wave of applications had arrived. These were all in the form of letters accompanied and this again was odd for an American by photographs. It looked as if they came from far more serious and better-qualified applicants and so, once more, I embarked on a punishing schedule of interviews. That was how I met Fenny. At first she seemed just like any of the other attractive, tall, blonde, blue-eyed candidates but as I talked to her after a routine typing test, I became more and more interested. The final thing that stuck in my mind, and remained lodged there after I had returned to the States, was when she told me that she was a marathon runner and had competed twice in the Paris twenty-kilometer event. As a former sportsman myself I had, after all, been a champion swimmer at one point - and as a former sportsman who was now dangerously out of condition, I wondered if some of her commitment would rub off on me. Maybe we could go training together. As she left the room I eyed her up and down to see if her figure was as athletic as it should be. It was. Unusual as the final days of 1988 had been, they were a refreshing change from my normal activities. Choosing between this platoon of pretty girls was probably slightly less enjoyable than being a judge at the Miss World finals or a picture-editor for Playboy but it was still a good deal more pleasurable than sharing an office with Dennis Lawrence. It had been a pity I could not have hired all of them.
252
14 . MELITTA
Back in California yet again, I drove to the Hotel, near San Diego airport, to fulfill an appointment with a Mr Peter Finch who had flown in from Australia to discuss licensing opportunities. Peter and I had never met before and it therefore came as some surprise to shake hands with a very tall, gangly forty-five year old who bore a disturbing resemblance to a famous screen actor. No, the actor in question was not Peter's namesake, the star of such films as A Town Like Alice and Sunday, Bloody Sunday: it was John Cleese of Monty Python fame. The resemblance didn't stop at his physical appearance either he had many of John Cleese's mannerisms and possessed a vaguely Pythonesque sense of humor. Even when he was not deliberately being funny, I found it hard to keep a straight face. As we took coffee together I half expected him to spring up out of his seat and launch into a silly walk or treat the lobby of the to an Adolf Hitler impression. The only way he seemed appreciably to differ from Mr Cleese, in fact, was in the matter of his accent, which was unmistakably Australian. "Well, Bill Thank God he hadn't called me Bruce. ...youre probably curious about me credentials. Now I wouldn't show these to just anyone and I'm not about to show them to you not here anyway. That's the sort of thing that's best done in the privacy of a hotel room between consenting adults. Suffice to say, I own several businesses in Australia ranging from the manufacturing of consumer goods to what might be loosely called the catering industry bars and restaurants to the rest of us. I'm sure you appreciate that no one ever goes broke through owning a bar in Australia." "Are the Australians big drinkers?" I asked, innocently. "Bill, Australians are big everything! Mainly, they're just big. Finding a small Australian is like trying to find a thirty ton truck up a monkey's backside."
253
PRIVATE SCREENING
"Difficult." "Let's just say very tricky." "So how did you find out about the collapsible bottle?" Peter's eyebrows performed a rapid double-somersault. "Well, you see," he began, "I was squatting in the outback, downing a few tubes of Foster's, having just skinned a couple of crocs with me Abo cobbers, when I happened to catch a Popeet commercial on CNN." "I'm sorry," I said, "I don't think..," "You're right," interrupted Peter. "Needs a translation. I was sitting in the desert, drinking a few beers after having skinned two crocodiles with my Aboriginal friends... Well, it's all a slight exaggeration really not to say a bloody lie. No, I've seen the Popeet commercials many times and so have me friends. I wanted to meet the man behind it all and find out if licensing is available for Australia and New Zealand." "It is," I said. "Further to that...well, I got me hands on a few of your brochures and I've already got plans for me first product." "And what would that be?" "Shampoo!" "Shampoo?" shampoo!" shampoo?" "In concentrated form in one of your bottles. I'm already in the detergent business and, if you ask me, shampoo for pets would be a great way of introducing the new container." "Would it?" I asked doubtfully. "It'll go down a bundle back home." "Well, Unilever are already conducting tests on concentrated detergent for our bottle and studying consumer preference but wouldn't you say you'd have a bit of difficulty asking a dog what he thinks of it?" can always ask the owner," reasoned Peter. "I can't argue with that," I replied. "But sooner or later you're going to want to bring out a shampoo for humans, right? I don't think they'll take kindly to using a product they associate with flea-bitten pooches." "Australian dogs don't have fleas," said Peter defensively. "Australian fleas drink so much beer they keep falling off. But I take your point. Anyway, it was just one of a number of possibilities."
254
THE FRAME-UP
We drove to the office and I introduced Peter to Dennis and Michael. "That Dennis is a bit on the large side," declared Peter, as we left. "If he'd grown upwards instead of outwards I'd have said he was Australian." We went to my house. I served Peter a cocktail and showed him several of my customers' commercials on video. From there we went across the road to the La Jolla shopping mall and visited a drugstore and a supermarket where Peter could stock up on Popeet containers, Shrinkables and Pop 'n' Shake. Burple, his favorite, had not yet made it to California. From my point of view, the exercise was a demonstration of how popular our products had become. Peter was convinced. Within the space of a few hours, he and I had become firm friends. It was the most pleasant business engagement I had known for a long time and I was sorry to see it end. Finally, however, I drove him back to his hotel and we had a last drink in the bar. "Well I must say, Bill," said Peter, "I'm very impressed with what you've done i n such a short time. You must be constantly on your feet." "My carpet's seen better days," I admitted. "You're right. I go to bed with my business; I get up with it; I eat with it. Sometimes it seems that my whole life is one, big collapsing and expanding bellows." remember not to press you," said Peter. "It seems as if you're doing pretty well, though. From what I've seen I'd say your lifestyle fits your status." "I wouldn't say it's the status I want," I replied. "This might seem strange to you but after all these years of frantic activity the status I hanker after most is that of husband and father." "You're kidding!" "I'm not. Commercial success is pretty sterile when it comes down to it." "It has its compensations," reminded Peter. "Money can't buy you love," I countered. "The gospel according to Lennon and McCartney!" He smiled. "Well I might just have the answer to your problems." be back in the States shortly to meet up with me wife in New Orleans. Mardi Gras time. Why don't you come along? There's a girl there I'd like you to meet."
255
PRIVATE SCREENING
"I've heard of the girls of New Orleans," I replied. "They've been the ruin of many a poor boy." "Well you won't be one of them. Besides, it's me niece you're talking about, my good man." "Your niece?" "She's a real little smasher," said Peter. "If I were twenty years younger I wouldn't even tell you about her." He shot me a none-too-avuncular leer. "She lives there," he added. "That's a relief," I replied. "I thought you were going to tell me she lived in Australia. New Orleans is practically next door." "That was what I thought," nodded Peter, exemplifying the telescoping-principle that most Australians employ when discussing distances. "Look, let's meet there next month and finalize our agreement. You'll be me guest, of course." "It sounds like a civilized idea," I replied. "Oh I won't be as bad as that," he said. "I'm an Australian." My personal life had consistently reflected the highs and lows of my business career. There was nothing particularly unusual in this: anyone who takes their career seriously is inevitably faced with similar sorts of problems and I certainly hadn't wasted much time feeling sorry for myself. However, recently it had seemed that my business fortunes and my personal fortunes had shifted to diametrically opposed extremes: o n the business side things had never been better while o n the personal side I couldn't recall them ever being worse. I was now the proud possessor of n o less than three homes: one in La Jolla, one in Ohio and one in The Hague. Yet were they really homes? The only activities which commonly took place in all of them were exclusively related to the collapsible bottle. A more accurate description might have been 'after-hours offices' where the grocery bill was always dwarfed by the phone and fax bills. Did the real-estate even belong to me? It certainly did o n paper, of course, but in reality weren't these 'homes' mere extensions of the CBA headquarters? Where was the large, shaggy dog dozing in front of the fire? Where was the smell of home cooking? It was with this in mind that my thoughts turned to Fenny. Perhaps she could supply the miracle ingredient. "Are you still interested in the job?" I asked, down a crackly, longdistance phone line which linked the relative warmth of Southern Californian winter to the wind and snow of Holland.
256
THE FRAME-UP
"Sure," came the reply. "I'm very interested." "Great," I said. "When can you start?" "Now." It took Fenny only a few days to get her affairs in order. I drove up to Los Angeles airport to meet her off the plane. This proved to be a'slightly more difficult undertaking than I'd imagined. The trouble was that I couldn't exactly remember what she and pretty but only a looked like. Sure, she was tall, blonde, matter of days earlier I'd been interviewing or examining photographs of a score of tall, pretty, blonde, blue-eyed Dutch girls and their various faces were all superimposed in my memory. I comforted myself with the notion that there couldn't be very many unaccompanied blondes on that particular flight and, with this mistaken idea firmly in mind, I parked my car and headed for the arrivals lounge. Of course, I'd completely ignored the fact that Fenny's flight was direct from Amsterdam and conveniently overlooked the second fact that practically every other girl you meet in Holland is blonde with blue eyes. Suddenly the arrivals hall was full of them. my God!" I thought. "Someone's opened a can of blondes. Which one is mine?" I hovered around uncertainly for a few minutes and then finally made my mind up. "That's her," I said to myself and headed towards a slim girl who was clearly looking for someone. As I approached her, a further uncertainty blossomed in my mind. "Do I kiss her on both cheeks like they do in Holland?" I wondered. "Maybe I'd better stick to a simple handshake. This is America, after all. Better not come on too fresh." I had third thoughts and decided on a welcoming embrace Russian style. Luckily, I opened my arms a split-second after she opened hers and was then rocked gently back on my feet as she pushed past and embraced the guy behind me. "That was a close one!" I gasped. "Could have been an international incident there!" Finally my luck was in. I spotted a lone girl in jeans and cowboy boots. I approached her cautiously, glancing behind me from time to time just to make sure there were no large guys advancing from the rear. As I got closer, I looked her in the eye and my doubts were dispelled.
257
PRIVATE SCREENING
"Fenny?" I asked. "Hello, Bill," she replied. to America." We hung around in L.A. for a while to miss the rush-hour traffic Later that evening I gallantly and then headed south to San offered to make myself comfortable on the sofa while she slept in my bed. Unfortunately there was nothing very comfortable about the sofa. It was fine for sitting on but was far from anatomically perfect as a bed. I awoke the following morning with temporary curvature of the spine and the sensation that a large number of invisible goblins were attacking my vertebral column with pick-axes. "Did you sleep well?" I asked. "Very well," replied Fenny, stretching luxuriously. "Did you?" "No." "But I was cold," she continued. Fenny had had good reason to be cold. The normally temperate climate of San had taken a sudden nose-dive and the weather was closer to that of Holland than to what you would expect in Southern California. Fortunately I had a special treat in mind: the New Orleans Mardi Gras was imminent and so too was the meeting I had scheduled with Peter Finch. The Louisiana sunshine was sure to provide the welcome that Fenny had been denied. Sunshine? Well, the sun shone all right. The trouble was that it shone through five degrees of frost. "We should've gone to Rio," grumbled Peter, when he met us at our hotel near the airport. "At this rate they'll have to use snow-cats instead of carnival floats." Peter had brought his wife to meet us. Ellen was roughly the same age as Peter and just as friendly and outgoing. She was an attractive woman with grown-up children from her previous marriage. A native of New Orleans, her accent contrasted strangely with her husband's. That evening, Peter and Ellen accompanied us to dinner at an Italian restaurant. Also present were Ellen's sister Joanne, Joanne's daughter Catherine and Catherine's date Ken. It struck me as an odd mixture of personalities. Joanne was quite different to her sister: while Ellen was blonde, Joanne was brunette; while Ellen seemed comfortable and secure in her new marriage, Joanne was very definitely predatory. Catherine, the niece that Peter had told me about back in California, was every bit as beautiful as he had led me to believe. In fact
258
THE FRAME-UP
she was devastating. Ken, on the other hand, looked, and no doubt felt, distinctly out of place. It was clear to me, both from what Peter had said previously and Catherine's barely-concealed disappointment, that I had been intended as her escort for the evening. Ken had obviously been roped in at the eleventh hour to prevent embarrassment but nobody, apparently, had given much thought to Ken's own embarrassment. But he was a lawyer and I consoled myself with the somewhat uncharitable thought that he probably deserved what he was getting. Fenny was radiant. If anything she was too radiant. Accustomed to formal dinner-parties in the European style, she was clad in an elegant evening gown and looked like Grace Kelly at a charity ball. The rest of us, by contrast, were dressed in semi-formal American eveningwear - the sort of thing which doubles for or Delmonico's. It wasn't a stiff, formal sort of dinner and even Ken managed to get in the occasional, embarrassed quip. It wasn't until I had to go to the bathroom, however, that anyone broached the subject of what was clearly on everybody's mind. "I think it's about time I strained the potatoes too," said Peter, colorfully,as he too rose from his chair and accompanied me to the men's room. "Nice girl," he observed, as the urinal echoed to the trickling sound of processed Chianti. For all that I'd been around a bit, I had never yet had occasion to talk to a future licensee in such surroundings and certainly never when the essential matter in hand, so to speak, was of such a basic nature. "Fenny, you mean?" "Yeah. Where did you find her?" "Mail order." I caught a brief glimpse of Peter's eyebrows shooting skywards. His stream wandered dangerously from the perpendicular. "It's a pity about Catherine, of course," I ventured. "Why? You beginning to regret you didn't come alone?" "No," I affirmed. "I just feel sorry for her, that's all. I get the impression that Ken was a last minute stand-in." "You can say that again," grunted Peter. "Fella's a wimp. No, that's not fair to him, poor bloke: he's a lawyer. I've met doctors you could have a laugh with; I've even met some passably interesting real-estate agents in me time; but I've yet to meet a lawyer who didn't bore the pants off me."
259
PRIVATE SCREENING
"When you introduced us I thought I was being sued for breach of promise," I said. Peter chuckled as he zipped up his pants. "Nah!" he snorted. "He's only here in case someone chokes on the lasagna." Fenny and I spent most of the next day sightseeing. We wandered with Peter and Ellen, took a tram along St around the Vieux Charles Avenue, checked out the bars and clubs on Bourbon Street, explored some of New Orleans' fine shops. At the middle of the day we spent an enjoyable two hours listening to some old time rock 'n' roll. For Fenny the whole experience amounted to severe culture shock. She had expected California to be warm and it wasn't. She had expected New Orleans to be warm but the only hot places in town were the dives along Bourbon Street. She had expected everyone to speak English but most of the born-and-bred natives of New Orleans spoke a curious lingo that bore more similarity to French and Spanish. She had expected an America full of shining skyscrapers and gleaming shopping-malls and found herself walking down streets lined with Frenchcolonial buildings festooned with wrought-ironwork that would have been more at home in Montmartre. Fenny was used to a Europe in which a three-hour drive would bring her face to face with a totally different culture. There was nothing extraordinary in that: it was a different country, wasn't it? The language was different, the money was different and, as you would expect, the people behaved differently. She had thought of America as a country with one, homogeneous cultural identity and now she was having to confront the fact that it just wasn't so. I didn't even dare to tell her about the Pennsylvania Dutch, Little Italy, Chinatown...or the fact that fifteen percent of the population spoke English only as a second guage. In the hotel lobby that afternoon, Peter and I finalized our agreement for Australia. A Fenny and Ellen relaxed and chatted, Peter s agreed to pay one and a half million dollars over the duration of the license. As a down-payment, and a gesture of good faith, he was to immediately pay twenty thousand dollars into my European account. The following day, Shrove Tuesday, saw the annual Mardi Gras parade through downtown New Orleans and we watched it pass through the Vieux with Peter, Ellen and Joanne. Although the noise was deafening, the huge carnival figures impressive and the col-
260
THE FRAME-UP
ors blindingly brilliant, I have to admit that I got the most enjoyment from simply watching the crowd. There were clowns, ghosts, devils, angels, pirates...it was almost as if someone had opened a book of fairy tales and shaken out the contents. I soon came to the conclusion that it is the public, and not organized displays, that make a festivity really joyous. As the drinks began to flow and the crowd got carried away by the noise and music, the inhibitions that govern everyday life disintegrated with amazing rapidity. Perhaps the most significant example of this was the large number of attractive young ladies dancing topless on the balconies above us and shaking their breasts in time to the music. It wasn't long before the carnival atmosphere got to Joanne. She vanished from our sides to reappear a short time later with a goodlooking young man in tow. "This is Jeff," she announced. "Isn't he just great?" Great he may have been, embarrassed he certainly was. No doubt when Joanne had suggested that he met her friends he had expected to see people of roughly the same age as her in other words a good fifteen years older than himself. Instead he was shaking hands with me a guy who was roughly his contemporary and Fenny, who was younger still. If he thought he couldn't have been more embarrassed by that, he had no idea what was to come later. After dropping him at his hotel, Joanne leaned out of the window of our taxi and addressed him in a tone that none of us could have ignored. remember, sweetie," she crooned loudly, call you later about this evening. Then we'll really get it on, huh?" Ellen smiled at me weakly. Peter put one hand over his eyes and sighed deeply. It was now time for Peter and Ellen to depart. "Well, it's been really nice meeting you again, Bill," he said, shaking my hand warmly. "And you too, Fenny. I look forward to a long and mutually profitable association." "Me too," I said. "And it's shampoo for humans, right?" "Humans?" Peter looked positively offended. "Dogs, Bill. Dogs." course," I said. "Dogs." Fenny and I took our last meal alone. The spicy Cajun food continued to give us memories of our stay in New Orleans long after our plane departed the following day.
261
PRIVATE SCREENING
The day after our return, I took Fenny to the office to introduce her to everyone. Dennis Lawrence, who had known of her arrival, greeted her with a bright smile. He seemed amused by the whole business. Michael Hudson immediately regarded her as a pupil. In fact both Dennis and Michael were to be her teachers: Dennis, who was still in charge of the book-keeping, would instruct her in that while Michael would teach her the rest of the business, paying particular attention to our international affairs. Rebecca van de Kamp reacted in a more sisterly way - she and Fenny were, after all, of roughly the same age and she too was of Dutch origin. This seemed to compensate to some extent for her disappointment that I had not converted to Jehova's Witness and that I had shown no interest in forging a relationship with her. Furthermore she was not slow to realize that the relationship between Fenny and myself was something more than usually exists between a boss and his secretary. For my part, I concentrated on introducing Fenny to the nuts and Angeles, in the form of visits to Tasco, our bolts of the operation in mold maker, and to Bison, where substantial developments were in progress. I had no intention of trying to make her an expert in those areas but I did want to give her a global view of the business which should prove invaluable both at conventions and in meetings with potential customers. I expected these trips to be the most boring part of her training but in fact they turned out to be the most exciting for her: they meant sleeping in the motor home and, for some strange reason, she found that enjoyable. Our trips in this vehicle provided some of the most memorable moments of Fenny's first visit to the States. Together with Max Voss and Enseand his Mexican wife, we made my old pilgrimage to nada, which proved to be a further case of culture-shock and paradox, and a few days later, with Gene another manufacturer and his girlfriend, we made a pilgrimage of a different sort to the shrine of the Big American Buck in Las Vegas. The shock of this contrast just about fused Fenny's brain. "I knew America was a rich country," she said, "but now I see where all the money goes." The combination of the flashing lights, the noise of bells ringing and woops of glee or screams of desperation, the music, the glitter, the rhinestones, the razzamatazz, all drove Fenny's sweet, civilized, Dutch mind into a sort of hallucinatory maelstrom. She found herself walking around Vegas with her mouth half open muttering "What happened to the burros?".
262
THE FRAME-UP
This trip, however, provided considerably more excitement than we'd bargained for. I think it was just after we'd entered the city limits that I noticed a battered pick-up truck in my rear-view mirror. Battered pick-ups are not exactly uncommon - particularly in desert areas - and I didn't pay it much attention. I remember seeing the same truck once or twice in the course of the evening but still didn't think anything of it. After we'd spent some time walking or in Fenny's case staggering - from one casino to the next, we returned to the motor home and drove to a restaurant for dinner. It was a good meal and we left the place with a comfortable feeling in our stomachs. This sensation didn't last long. The motor home had been ransacked. All our belongings leather jackets, cameras, radio-cassettes, clothes had been taken and so had virtually everything else that wasn't firmly screwed down. "The pick-up truck," groaned Gene. "What?" I said. "Didn't you see it?" he asked. "It was following us around all evening. I thought it was just coincidence but it obviously wasn't." Then I remembered it too. "Wait a minute," I said. "Aren't we jumping to conclusions? It might have been coincidence." "Bullshit," snapped Gene. "I've heard stories like this before. These make a living out of picking out some expensive car and following it around. As soon as the owners leave it, bingo: this happens." We called the police and they regretfully confirmed Gene's theory. To make matters worse, although both he and I had seen the truck several times during the evening, neither of us could give an adequate description of the vehicle and much less a license-number. Our holiday mood had abruptly vanished. To tell the truth I found the loss of our belongings a lot easier to accept than the savage violation of my beloved motor home. I almost felt as if I'd been raped. Fenny didn't say anything: for her the experience was just another part of the hallucination that was America. For the past two years I had had constant hands-on involvement with my licensees. These were all individuals whose vision had turned them into true entrepreneurs - people who were willing to take a risk and gamble with their futures. It had become a personal affair for everyone involved and even though some of them were competing with each other they still found it necessary to work together. It was a
263
PRIVATE SCREENING
true family complete with love and hate situations, success-stories and heartbreaks. We were all in the business of making something that had never existed before, something which we all hoped would become part of the American lifestyle. Individually none of us could claim outright success - it was either stick together or die separately. It was such persistence and stubbornness which finally convinced the giants to move in. Possibly the executives of these larger companies had finally realized that there might be a promotion in rediscovering this novel packaging idea. Moreover, the collapsible bottle had now been around for a respectable time and had acquired, via the efforts of the little guys, a proven track record. Now General Foods, Unilever and other giants had either put a product into the marketplace or where conducting serious investigations on it. I had grown to be suspicious of large companies (I still am) yet Mitsubishi and Melitta, faced with the prospect of conquering a market twice as large as the United States, had shown interest in importing the products directly from us, even in the long term, and this could only indicate a level of confidence which had not existed previously. It was now up to me to justify this confidence by establishing an infrastructure which could effectively supply them. It was surprising that Mitsubishi had no interest in manufacturing the product in Japan and even when we recommended that the bottles be manufactured in Mexico, where production costs were far lower, they were adamantly against the idea. I had never yet come across a company, large or small, that balked at the idea of lower prices or increased profit margins and I put this point to Mitsubishi's Los Angeles manager. He didn't seem the least embarrassed by my question and revealed that Mitsubishi regarded the product as a way of offsetting the trade- deficit between Japan and the United States: as far as they were concerned this was a political as well as a commercial strategy. In such a context, the cost of production, transportation and distribution were relatively unimportant. Neither did Mitsubishi have any intention of dedicating the containers to a specific application for example juice concentrates or condiments as this would put them into competition with locally available products which, in turn, would mean producing the bottles locally. The containers were to be sold as reusable items manufactured exclusively in the United States and sold at a far higher price. For them, balancing the trade-deficit between the U.S. and Japan was as important, if not more important, than making a profit on the sale of the bottle. It would not have suited their purpose at all if it had been stamped 'Hecho in Mexico' as they would have
264
THE FRAME-UP
been unable to point it out to visiting congressmen as an example of how they were importing American products. In contrast, Melitta, being a German company, had none of the above concerns in fact their policy proved to be the complete opposite of Mitsubishi's. After contacting several manufacturing companies in Germany, they finally decided that it was cheaper to import the bottles from America than to produce them locally. It was with this in mind that Cavo and Melitta asked me to meet them in January for contract negotiations. Suddenly CBA was involving itself in the export of finished products. This was no great problem as we already had a large inventory of molds but we needed to produce some point-of-sale materials such as catalogs and price-lists and to take steps to incorporate the ABI company. With the involvement of multinationals, it was imperative that the ABI corporation became the marketing vehicle for finished goods since, as manufacturers, we would now be exposed to problems of product liability. This was a source of some concern to me: up to then my partners had resisted all my attempts to convince them of the need to either incorporate CBA or set up an alternative corporation which would provide us with the adequate protection. For them, 'corporation' was a four-letter word. Now there are times in one's life when the most banal occurrence seems strange simply because it's out of context. You wouldn't even notice a computer in a high-tech Los Angeles apartment but come across one of them in a remote African village and you'd probably stop to take a photograph. In Australia, kangaroos are so common that they're widely regarded as a pest but you'd certainly freeze in mid-jog if you saw one hopping around Central Park. I felt exactly the same sensation when Dr Thomas and his son walked into the CBA offices. "Dr Thomas?" I said disbelievingly. "You seem surprised, Bill," he replied. "Do you blame me?" I asked. "I haven't seen you in my place of business in the last three years." "Don't flatter yourself," he said. "I'm only here because my son wants to register at the university. As it's just a mile away, I decided to stop by." "That sounds more like it." I had meant my remark as a mild rebuke but Dr Thomas, although he couldn't have failed to note the edge of bitterness in my voice, continued to treat the matter as some sort of joke.
265
PRIVATE SCREENING
be putting in a claim for travel expenses, of course." By now he could clearly see that his flippancy was not well received and he decided to change tack. "Well, joking aside, I'm sure you got my call," he said. "Call? What call?" "Dr Thomas called to say he'd be stopping by," explained Dennis. "I forgot to mention it." "Dr Thomas, I don't think you two have met," I said pointedly. "This is Dennis Lawrence." "Hello, Dennis," said Dr Thomas, shaking his hand. "So I finally get to put a face to that voice I've heard so often." I gave a puzzled look. "We've spoken on the phone a few times," said Dr Thomas. "Just routine things regarding our tax statement." I felt uneasy but I didn't follow it up. Instead I introduced Dr Thomas to Michael Hudson. "Mike here is in charge of the day to day running of the company," I said. "If you need any information in the future, I'd appreciate it if you'd contact him. From now on, Dennis is only responsible for the international operation on my behalf. I'm trying to keep CBA and international separate." Dr Thomas nodded his understanding. Dennis was impassive. "If you follow me to Dennis' office," I continued, give you a complete rundown on the company's present situation." We moved towards the door. Dennis began to follow us. "Why don't you keep Dr Thomas' son amused?" I said. Dennis shot me an angry look. "Fenny's already doing that," he said. "Or do you think she needs help?" I ignored the remark and led Dr Thomas to the office. Once there, he settled into Dennis' opulent couch while I went to the wall-board and began to scrawl facts, figures and diagrams. I spent a long time giving a detailed exposition of current position and, as was so often the case, I got so carried away that I failed to notice that Dr Thomas was not paying me much attention. When I eventually looked round, I saw him running an appreciate hand over the soft leather of Dennis' couch. His brow, however, was creased. "I know what you're thinking," I said. "It's an odd choice of furniture for an office of this sort, right? As far as Dennis is concerned, it's a more essential piece of equipment than the computer." "What do you mean?"
266
THE FRAME-UP
"I mean he spends most of his time asleep on it," I said. "He doesn't seem to do much else around here. That's why I'm relieving him of his duties with CBA." "I see," said Dr Thomas, reflectively. "If he does anything other than sleep, it usually ends up as a source of worry to me. I don't trust the guy. Frankly I haven't for quite a while now." "I must say, I had no idea of that," admitted Dr Thomas. "In fact it comes as rather a shock to me. He always seemed totally on top of everything authoritative even." "That's the impression most people get when they first meet him. I went down just the same road until I realized what he really was." "But what's his function in the company? Is he an employee or what?" "To be honest with you," I replied, "I don't know what he is or what he's up to. My only contractual agreement with him regards the Collapsible Bottle International company. I gave him a limited partnership in that with five percent equity. He was supposed to raise two point eight million dollars for the European market. Needless to say, he didn't raise a red cent. A far as CBA is concerned, we pay him a salary s but he's consistently refused to fulfill any of the requirements necessary for an employment contract and by the way he keeps referring to himself as an agent and consultant for CBA, I'd say he wants to stay independent." "Why keep him with you then?" "I wish I could just fire him here and now," I replied. "The trouble is, we've got this SCAT trial coming up and he's an important witness. If I know Dennis and, believe me, I do know Dennis as soon as he's fired he'll go straight to Max Hollis and offer himself as a witness for the prosecution. It's too big a risk to take right now." "I see your point," admitted Dr Thomas ruefully. "And talking of law-suits," I continued, "there's another one I want to talk to you about that's every bit as serious. It's our very first product liability suit. Aren't you just thrilled?" "Overjoyed," murmured Dr Thomas. "What's it about?" "Some poor lady bought a Popeet container, filled it with soup and stuck it in the microwave." "Ouch!" "Exactly. When she took it out, the container tilted and poured scalding soup down her hip and leg resulting in third-degree burns, permanent scarring and a hefty claim against Popeet, the
267
PRIVATE SCREENING
er and us. As a limited partnership, we have no insurance coverage. If she wins - and there's every likelihood that she will it'll spell the end of CBA and will probably mean I lose everything I have down to my spare toothbrush." "Meaning you want to incorporate.'' "It seems the only logical thing to do. I'm not harassing you for nothing: if I go down 1'11 make damned sure you go down with me." "That's nice of you, Bill," said Dr Thomas. "If it's such a big concern to be general partner, why don't you step aside and let someone else take the rap? You can retire on your eighty percent and enjoy life." "And what do you think would happen to CBA if I did?" I asked. "It's the close tie between inventor and invention that accounts for the success we've had up to now. I think you'd find that people expect more than just a set of plans and a license they expect backup, technical assistance..." "I know all that," interrupted Dr Thomas. "Do you?" I snapped. "Can you imagine Dennis Lawrence on the phone to Coca-Cola: 'Hi there! My name's Dennis Lawrence! We have exclusivity on a new bottle. Would you like to meet and discuss it?'" "So what's wrong with that?" asked Dr Thomas. "What's wrong with it is that these companies have been dealing we me for four years. They've met me at conventions and they've always contacted me personally. Why? Because, like it or not, as far as they're concerned, I am CBA. That isn't megalomania on my part it's just a simple question of fact. What's always impressed them most is that they haven't just been dealing with another salesman but with an inventor selling his own invention. What's the difference? One is doing his job and the other is doing his duty - I'll leave it to you to work out which is which." "I get your point, Bill," said Dr Thomas who appeared to be quite stunned by the force of my convictions. "You must realize, though, that we're supposed to be silent partners. This idea of yours, sensible as it may be, puts us in rather a dilemma. But I will talk to the rest of the partners about either incorporating CBA or becoming shareholders in an ABI corporation." "I can't advise it strongly enough," I said. "Apart from any considerations of liability we are not, as a limited partnership, supposed to be in the business of manufacturing and distributing our products. Now we're on the eve of exporting to Europe through Melitta and Japan through Mitsubishi and both these companies are pretty leery about dealing with a limited partnership. Listen, Dr Thomas: I'm very sorry to
268
THE FRAME-UP
have to say this, but unless a corporation is established I will not allow any of my foreign licensees to do business with CBA. They will have to obtain their product elsewhere. Dr Thomas sighed and ran his hand over the smooth leather of Dennis' couch. "Well," he said at last, "that's your prerogative, Bill. According to our agreement with you, CBA has no rights outside the United States and we have no choice but to go along with any decision you make regarding other countries. But I do see what you mean. I promise get back to you as soon as possible with a positive answer." I continued my presentation. I felt it was important that the partners were aware of every step I was taking or contemplating - I did not want any situation to arise about which they felt I had not given them sufficient advance information. I told him about the opening of my European office; I told him about the purchase of my apartments in Holland and Morocco; I told him about all the other expenses that I had been obliged to incur in my efforts to present the correct image and encourage my foreign customers to take us seriously. I made a special effort to explain why I had spent so much time overseas and to link it to the benefits they would reap if they could only be a little more cooperative. Finally I ran out of steam and escorted Dr Thomas back to the elevator. "There's just one thing I don't understand," he said, as I pressed the call button. "What's that?" "Why, after all you've told me about him, do you still want Dennis Lawrence as a shareholder in ABI?" I leaned against the wall and regarded Dr Thomas levelly. "He claims to be able to launch our corporation publicly and raise twenty million dollars. He's probably lying, but if he isn't, the salary we're paying him is a small investment for that sort of return. If I wasn't a risk-taker, I wouldn't be here today." Dr Thomas nodded. The bell of the elevator rang. The door swished open. We stepped inside. Dennis came by my house. It had already been several days and there was still no word from Dr Thomas. "To what do I owe this honor, Dennis?" He settled back on my couch and scratched the thin hair that still lingered above his ears.
269
PRIVATE SCREENING
"Bill, it seems to me that your partners want to keep you o n a leash." "What am I supposed to do?" I asked. "Bark?" "I don't think you realize the seriousness of the situation," he wheezed. "The partners are resisting all attempts to form a corporation." "Why?" I asked, as if I didn't know. "Because their majority in CBA gives them a lot of leverage," he replied. "Compared with that, a corporation would limit them and they'd be exposed to more liability." "You wouldn't believe how many times I've heard that before, Dennis. Why do they want the company to stagnate at its present level? At least I credited these guys with some business-sense." "Well, that's the situation as I understand it." "And what do you think of it?" "It stinks. If you want my advice, I'd say give me some shares in CBA. Give some to Michael too. Give some to your brothers. Maybe we can build ourselves a majority vote so that we can dissolve the company if the partners become a major obstacle." "Dissolve the company?" "I've been reading through the partnership agreement. It says that if one third of the partners can't decide on a new general partner, the company dissolves automatically." "But I'm the general partner. I made sure I can't be removed." "That's true," admitted Dennis. "But if you don't get your own way you can resign. There'll then be a meeting to vote in another general partner - say, for instance, Michael and all we have to do is object to the choice. With that kind of impasse the partnership would have to be dissolved. All it needs is a one third vote." "Well, Dennis," I said. "it looks as if you're finally beginning to justify your salary." I didn't take the matter any further. My real feelings were something along the line of 'You just can't wait, can you, Dennis?'. The last time I had relinquished any shares had been to compensate van den for half a million dollars of out-of-pocket expenses which seemed a far greater sacrifice than Dennis had ever made or even Michael Hudson for that matter. More specifically, I knew that if I granted Dennis a share in the business, his vote would certainly never be on my side - especially in view of my having discriminated against him in favor of Michael. I had known Dennis for two years now. Two years too long.
270
THE FRAME-UP
Fenny's arrival had coincided with the time when I had decided to produce our first product catalog. Richard Anderson had been chiefly instrumental in the production of all our recent promotional material and had also become a close friend. Fenny immediately took a liking to him, and vice-versa. This was just as well as our small production team was closeted together for fourteen hours a day for two weeks. In a way, Fenny's presence there was slightly reminiscent of the first shoot for the A Votre brochure when Birgit had acted as a model, a secretary and virtually everything in between. Since she was new to the business, Fenny's contribution was more that of a general gofer and although she found the process interesting in the beginning she soon began to get bored with hours of sitting around as plastic containers were endlessly arranged and rearranged for the benefit of the camera. Unexpectedly, Dennis Lawrence also professed some interest in what happened at Richard's studio. As it turned out, this interest had less to do with the photogenic qualities of a plastic bottle than with Richard's other commissions - for which we would frequently have to dismantle our sets and postpone work during this two week period. Richard's speciality was glamour photography and his other commissions consisted of taking swimsuit or half-nude photographs of attractive young ladies sent by various modeling agencies. Suddenly Dennis voiced a keen interest in photography - revealing an aesthetic side to his character which had been well hidden up till that point. His visits to the studio, therefore, always seemed to coincide with Richard's other commissions and, when there was no live flesh to aesthetically appreciate, he contented himself with casting a critical and expert eye over Richard's earlier work in that field. Since a certain amount of this work did not involve models but rather famous actresses who wanted a pictorial record of their beauty for private use, Richard did not take kindly to Dennis' rifling through his back catalog. He was a serious professional who had recently been selected as the exclusive photographer for a reunion of world boxing champions at which both Ali and Joe Frazier had been present. This was the work that he preferred to be judged by. It was during those enforced interruptions that I asked Fenny to put some of her secretarial skills to use by typing out a one-page agreement to transfer some of my general partner shares to Max Voss, my brother Fenny herself and Richard. Following through with Dennis' recommendation of adding more partners would counter any ill
271
PRIVATE SCREENING
will on the part of the medical cabal who were now beginning to break their silence. To a certain extent I felt bad about giving away hard-earned general partner shares to people whom, with the exception of my brother, I barely knew. Dennis' report, however, had caused me many a sleepless night. I had believed him completely when he told me that the partners were cooking something up but I also suspected that he was cooking something up himself. The only thing I was unsure about was what he had in mind for me. It was imperative that I redistributed the shares in some way and my choice was finally based on emotional considerations. I felt considerable affection for all of the new shareholders and I knew that none of them bore me any ill will. This decision reduced my equity from seventy-nine to seventyfive percent but, in the long run, I considered this a small price to pay for my peace of mind. In fact I had been contemplating such a move for several years and had kept postponing it in the face of more important matters. Now, in a manner typical of me, I was rushing the whole business through very hastily on the eve of my next European trip. Once the shoot had ended, we still had to discuss the rest of the art-work necessary to the production of the catalog. All in all, it was a full-time job for me and for Richard. I was anxiously awaiting the printing of this eight-page catalog in order to take it with me to Europe. I had reserved another trip to Holland another Apex ticket for which a two week notice period was necessary. Our departure date was fast approaching but Richard still did not have all the material ready for the printer. However, his work had already been approved by me he only needed to put the final touches to it. I left him to handle this and flew off to Europe, having left instructions for CBA to mail me several copies by express post to our European office. This trip was to involve both contract negotiations with Melitta and the establishment of a multi-million dollar manufacturing facility in Casablanca. At Schiphol airport Fenny and I were met by her parents. This was, of course, the first time we had set eyes on each other and, although my first impressions of them were distinctly favorable, their impression of me was rather more confused. They had expected Fenny to be accompanied by her boss - an American multimillionaire - but they were surprised, shocked even, to see us touching and embracing. Was this on-the-job training American style? What were their daughter's
272
THE FRAME-UP
duties exactly? Whatever they were, they certainly went beyond hand-typing. By now, Fenny and I had been together for two months and our mutual attraction had taken its natural course. We felt perfectly relaxed in each other's company and, as far as we were concerned, the formal employer-employee relationship was one that only existed o n paper. Mr and Bosse, however, had been entirely unaware of this change and this generated a certain amount of mutual embarrassment between us in the beginning. Fenny and I were driven to Amsterdam for lunch at the family home. This was a typically modest Dutch house - brick built, two stories plus an attic-room with a small driveway at the front and a large garden at the back ending at a canal where a small motor-boat was moored. The Bosse family were as typical as their house: Fenny's father was a taxi-driver; her mother was a housewife who took in occasional part-time work; her brother was a n accountant; her sister was an executive secretary and her sister's boyfriend was a bus-driver. Superficially, at least, they appeared t o be a normal working class family but I soon noticed a big difference between them and their equivalents in the United States. In the States most families in this income group - or many others come t o that are constantly trying t o better themselves. One of the chief preoccupations of American life, in fact, is the socalled American Dream by which anyone, whatever their origins, can rise t o the highest position in the land. This is not simply a question of a couple of clauses enshrined in the Declaration of Independence but of the conscious intent of an entire people. In a country obsessed with self-betterment and where the word 'loser' is second only to 'communist' as a term of insult, the very idea of being content with the status quo is almost inconceivable. Ideally, America is a land full of chiefs where indians just don't exist. The Bosse family, by contrast, had n o such aspirations. Not only were they quite content to work in support positions, they took real pride in it. For them, their home life was the most important aspect of their lives and, as soon as they stepped over the threshold i n t h e evening, their jobs and their careers were relegated t o second place. This love of family life was accurately reflected in t h e Bosse home. The Dutch take extreme pride in their houses and it's rare to find one that is neglected. An overgrown garden is usually a sign that a house is unoccupied and nothing more. In a country where the winters are not usually characterized by their mildness it had always seemed strange t o me t o see so many large windows, the curtains of which
273
PRIVATE SCREENING
were generally left undrawn. Whenever I walked in front of one I used to studiously avoid looking in. Such was not the case with Fenny: whenever she passed one, she always took a deep interest in what lay on the other side of the glass and if I expressed reservations on the subject she would point out that if people did not draw their curtains it was because they wanted you to look in. In America, considerations of security alone would prevent that. It would be considered an open invitation to a thief or a rapist. In Holland, however, such crimes are rare - even the roughest areas of downtown Amsterdam are like a kindergarten compared with the horrors of Oakland and the South Bronx. A few hours later we left Amsterdam en route for The Hague. Now it was Fenny's turn to experience culture shock. Although it took us no more than thirty minutes to reach the city, she felt as if she were entering a foreign country. "You do realize it's only slightly longer than the distance from San to L Jolla, don't you?" I said. "To an American they're practicala ly one and the same town." "I suppose you're right," she replied. "It's just that I don't know Den Haag The Hague, I mean. The only time I ever needed to go there was for the interview for that stupid job of yours. And look what happened to me then - shanghaied to that house in L Jolla. You know The a Hague better than I do." She was probably right. I'd forgotten that what Americans would consider as no distance at all is, for a European, and a Dutchman in particular, the difference between one major metropolitan city and the next. Anyone who doubts the validity of this comment should attend a soccer match between Ajax of Amsterdam and FC Den Haag: it takes little short of a U.N. peacekeeping force to keep the fans apart. Nor, when we reached my apartment, was Fenny particularly enamored of my choice of furniture. I had always had a slight fondness for heavy oak and leather but, to tell the truth, I had designed this interior with visiting businessmen in mind who were not only generally conservative by nature but also tended to be older than me. "It's the sort of stuff that grandparents go in for," was her final comment. The guest room was more to her taste. Although Fenny slightly she liked its resented the fact that it had been furnished by brightness and its modernity.
274
THE FRAME-UP
Next day we both went to the Europa Reizen offices to check on business. We were greeted warmly and there were congratulations and a certain amount of disbelief that I had finally made up my mind about my choice of secretary. was polite towards Fenny but it was quite obvious that she was still jealous. Kees, on the other hand, was his usual charming self. "You made a good choice, Bill," he whispered, in a private moment. "I'm impressed. Do you think she'd like a guided tour of the city?" "You'd better ask her," I replied. "But just make sure that the only International House you take her to is the one where they teach languages." There was a great deal of correspondence awaiting my attention which at the Europa Reizen office. Among it was a fax from Peter Please read: "Investor wishes to put one million dollars into call urgently." In a way, I was not surprised to hear from him. It always seemed that he wanted changes made to our agreement at the eleventh hour before royalty payments were due. I knew that he had dropped his plans for expanding into the European market as he wanted to save his money for launching the hundred percent juice category product. It was perfectly understandable that Peter should wish to retain as much money as possible in order to counter any dirty tricks on the part of his competitors and to launch his new product successfully. I had to wait until later in the day before I could call him. I was excited by the news. Bill," said Peter, "I'm sorry to say this but we're going to have to reduce the yearly fee drastically for our existing license. We want to encourage some new investors to join the company." Yearly fees had been stipulated by me in every license as a threshold to monitor the performance of a customer. It also gave me the legal means to terminate licenses should that amount not be met. Having been involved with Peter for three years, however, and never having had the slightest doubt that he was doing his utmost to establish his products, this threshold had only a symbolic significance. Moreover, having built an inventory of molds capable of producing over a hundred million containers a year, the total of the individual royalties to be paid per container stood a significant chance of surpassing that threshold. Peter explained that reducing the yearly fee from a million dollars to half a million dollars would have a good psychological effect on newcomers.
275
PRIVATE SCREENING
I spent the following two weeks working day and night on rewriting and amending his previous license: faxing documents almost CBA and Holland. The non-stop day and night between machine now resided full-time in my guest room.
While Michael was my only consultant regarding the redrafting of Peter's license, Dennis was the only person who knew about the status of the catalog. Dennis, however, was nowhere to be found which was unusual as it was normally very difficult to get him out of his comfortable desk-chair or off his couch. I began to think that something disastrous had happened. I kept postponing my meetings with Melitta and Cavo so that I could hand them the catalog: hoping that they would sign the multimillion dollar contract presently under study and possibly place some immediate orders. Not wishing to betray the fact that my colleagues were in any way inefficient or malicious, I was fast running out of excuses for the delay. The entire episode enfuriated me but I calmed down somewhat when, at the end of my stay, Kamal and Myriam Laraqui came to visit me in The Hague. They were spending their spring vacation in France and had decided to make a quick stopover to sign some agreements regarding manufacturing. Kamal and Myriam arrived on Fenny's birthday. That evening a party had been arranged by her parents in a Greek restaurant in Amsterdam where I was introduced to the rest of the Brosse clan. The vlakis, the retsina, the bouzoukis and the increasingly wild dancing, made me forget the troubles I was having with the office in America. We didn't get to throw any plates on the floor but we were all fairly out of it by the time we arrived back in The Hague. In the few days remaining before I and the Laraquis had to leave the country we discussed a multimillion dollar venture that involved the establishment of a manufacturing facility and the ordering of a variety of molds to conform to European standard sizes. As well as this, I wanted him to develop a range of attachments that would make the containers more attractive to the consumer. "The American consumer's become familiar with the container," I said. "Now they're beginning to get more money-conscious and they expect more than the basic product. They expect to see it dressed for work. Do you know that the collapsible one-pint bottles from Taiwan sell for five bucks in America - the same as our two gallon containers? They can justify that price on the grounds' of the attachments that come with them."
276
THE FRAME-UP
"Well," said Kamal, "if it's gadgets you want, that's easy enough to do. We can manufacture custom-made closures, handles, matching cups... I can allocate a whole design department in one of my companies to come up with modern, practical accessories." "Since you spoke of closures which I assume are going to require special machinery to produce," I said. "I'd like to take advantage of that to start research and development on another patent I have entitled Freshness and Tamper Monitoring Closures. It's a new patent and CBA has no rights to it." eyes lit up. "That sounds like serious business, Bill. What is it exactly?" I filled him in on all the details and, by the time I got round to underlining the life-saving nature of the technology, Kamal was sold on the idea. "If you want a partner in this venture, I really would like to be considered," he said. "It would be ironic, though, that a technology of this scale that would benefit mostly Americans would be developed in a country such as Morocco." "What's wrong with Morocco?" I asked. Kamal laughed. "Absolutely nothing," he replied. "In fact as long as this gizmo is produced there I can guarantee you unlimited resources. I'm not just talking about manpower either - as you well know, I have millions of dirhams sitting in the bank back home. I can't take the money out of the country and it might as well be used for something practical." "And life-saving," I added. "That's what struck me as ironic," smiled Kamal. "We both come from what the Americans would call a third-world country and yet nobody there would dream of tampering with baby food. What is it with America that it produces so many psychos?" "It's a big country," I said. "It takes all sorts to make a superpower. But you're right, of course. That's why I want to get this closure into production. It's not like the collapsible bottle that was strictly a commercial venture. The U.S. government has entrusted me with a life-saving technology - life-saving, Kamal. At the moment anyone else who comes up with the same idea is forbidden from putting it into production. Why? Because the government expects me to do it. You're providing me with the first chance I've had and I certainly want to take advantage of it." We subsequently signed an agreement which was to provide me with forty percent equity and was to allow CBA free research and devel-
277
PRIVATE SCREENING
opment facilities. It was negotiated with a view to the enormous market opportunity presented by Mitsubishi and Melitta and would reinforce our ability to meet their demands. The scheme would either compliment the American operation or, in the event of my partners' continued refusal to incorporate, deprive it of an otherwise guaranteed source of royalties. Whatever happened, it would assure a regular supply of finished products for the European market and might have the added effect of putting effective pressure on the radiologists. This, at least, was a nice way to end my otherwise inconclusive European trip. As Fenny and I got back on the plane to Los Angeles, I resolved to have no guilt about firing Dennis Lawrence as soon as I got back. I had spent one month in Europe and, entirely because of his lack of cooperation, I had only accomplished half of what I had set out to do. Melitta, the European giant, would have to wait. I only hoped they would.
278
15 . R.O.2
My marathon transatlantic and transcontinental trips seemed to go much faster in Fenny's company. Talking to her was certainly a great improvement on watching the in-flight movie and it was good not to wake up with my head against the shoulder of a complete stranger. Later, as we entered the arrivals hall at Los Angeles airport, I was instantly reminded of the last time I had been there, racked with uncertainty as to which blue-eyed blonde was Fenny Bosse. Strangely enough, as we mounted the incline leading into the hall, I saw a man hovering about with exactly the same sort of uncertainty as I had felt on that previous occasion. He was clearly searching for someone and I glanced around briefly to see if there was some Fenny lookalike accompanying us off the plane. In fact there were: we had flown direct from Amsterdam and, once again, a can of blondes had been emptied into the arrivals hall. Mr. Uncertainty didn't seem to be paying them much attention however. A we drew closer, he glanced s in my direction, examined me briefly with his head on one side and then approached us. "He's not going to kiss me, is he?" I wondered. "I hope he shaved at least." "William Touzani?" asked Mr Uncertainty, anxiously. "Yes," I replied. My God, he is going to kiss me! "I'm sorry about this," he said, thrusting a large envelope into my hands with no real visible sign of regret. It was the first time a mailman had met me at the airport and certainly the first time one had apologized for giving me my mail, but before I had a chance to say anything further, he turned on his heel and melted into the crowd. I turned the envelope over in my hands. It was heavy and roughly four inches thick. I opened it and pulled out a large handful of neatly-typed documents. At the top of the first page there was an address under which was written Attorneys for Plaintiffs, under that, in large
279
PRIVATE SCREENING
capitals, was the inscription Superior Court of California, San Joaquin County. "Not another law-suit," I groaned. "So who's suing us now?" The list of plaintiffs was long. It read: 'Kathryn R. Schwemley, Thomas A. Thomas, Daniel Jr., Javad Jamshidi, Laszlo B. Fodor, Joseph A. Barkett, Michel G. Khoury, William G. Hoskins, Radiology Medical Group, Restated Profit Sharing Plan for There was only one person named as defendant: me. My blood ran cold. So my partners had finally done it. Dennis had been right they had been brewing trouble after all. My head was spinning as I leafed through the documents. What were they suing me for? If I had a guilty secret, it was so well-kept that even I didn't know about it. I soon found my answer: 'breach of fiduciary duty... The above-described acts...were willful and fraudulent... punitive damages to the sum of Five million? That was quite an investment! There was no mention of Dennis anywhere. Why should there have been? After all, he wasn't a partner: he was an employee. What was more, if anyone could explain this and help me fight the case in court it was surely Dennis Lawrence. It was time to rouse my troubleshooting watchdog from his kennel. Tucking the complaint under my arm, I made directly for the nearest phone with a bewildered Fenny in tow. "Hi, Dennis." "Hello, Bill." "I've just been served with a law-suit. Have you also been served in any way? Do you know what this is about?" There was a brief silence and then I heard Dennis' familiar wheezy voice once more. "No, Bill. I haven't been served. The documents you've got there speak for themselves." My throat went dry. Another, more awful possibility was dawning on me. "Dennis," I began. "You wouldn't be behind this in any way, would you?" There was another pause. "I know you're tired from your trip," wheezed Dennis, "but if you read further in those documents you'll see that I masterminded the whole thing and, what's more, I should warn you that if you come by the office there'll be cops here to arrest you." There was a curt, sarcastic edge to his voice. I could imagine him thinking: "I've finally got you, you bastard". The picture was finally
280
THE FRAME-UP
becoming clear and I had no wish to continue the conversation. Moreover, my legs felt as if they were giving way. I had the sensation that someone very large and powerful had hit me in the stomach with a baseball bat. "Dennis," I said. "Do you think you could find it in your heart to leave the keys to my house and car under the doormat?" "Will do." It was how he had always answered a request. Some things would never change. I hung up. Fenny and I walked like zombies to the TWA terminal to catch our twenty-minute flight to San Normally Dennis would have met us at the airport. This time, however, we took a taxi-cab to the house. The keys were where I had asked Dennis to leave them and as soon as I entered, I saw the huge pile of mail lying on the coffee-table - at least he'd seen to that. Yet maybe he'd seen to other things too. I began a tour of inspection of the house just to make sure that nothing was missing but no, everything seemed to be in order just as I had left it a month before. It was only when I came to the den that I noticed that something was wrong: there were no papers on my desk. With mounting anxiety I began a search of the room only to discover that every file, every letter, every patent and all documents relating to my international business had been taken. Nothing had been overlooked. I had been able to accept being warned off from the CBA office relatively easily because I had known that I had a second office at home with all the materials necessary to conduct my international business. Now it seemed that that too quite illegally had been taken from me. It was almost as if all my work of the previous years had been abruptly, cruelly wiped away. Suddenly, I knew what a deposed head-of-state must feel like: something less than the lowliest citizen, a non-person. In my desperation, I decided to call Dr Thomas who, since the death of Dr Schwemley, had been my contact among the partners. At Radiology, the phone was answered by a secretary. "Can you hold the line, Mr Touzani?" she said. see if Dr Thomas is available." There were several seconds of silence then a click. "Hello, Bill." Dr Thomas' voice was clipped and businesslikeand he gave me no time to speak.
281
PRIVATE SCREENING
"I'm afraid we have nothing to discuss," he said. "I recommend you get yourself a lawyer. Goodbye." There was another click and then silence. During the night of Wednesday 12th to Thursday 13th April 1989 I found it impossible to sleep. My mind was racked with doubts, anxieties and paranoia. Early in the morning, Fenny and I drove out to San airport to book a seat on the first available flight to San Francisco. So far, I had not been able to bring myself to read through the mass of legal documents which had been served on me. To be honest, I hadn't even been able to face re-opening the package. It was almost as if the devil himself lurked inside the envelope. offices. I had seen DenThe real devil, I knew, lurked inside nis Lawrence's handiwork before and I knew that he would go to any lengths, legal or illegal, to achieve his goal. Although I knew I was innocent of all the allegations he was making, I was certain that he must have built up a formidable case against me. I had always been aware of his potential for mischief-making: it was why I had deliberately tried to deprive him of large-scale responsibility. Over recent months accounting and had had access to he had merely been handling only those documents which I had considered harmless and irrelevant. God only knew to what use he had put them. I decided to dump the whole thing on my lawyers in Sacramento. I was confident that they would be able to extract the important points from this wilderness of legalese and tell me exactly where I stood. At San airport, the girl at the check-in desk handed my credit-card back to me and regarded me coldly. "I'm sorry, Mr Touzani, but this card has been suspended." "What?" been suspended," she repeated, with the calm deliberation of someone speaking to a half-wit. "Why?" "I can't tell you why. You'll have to discuss that with the credit company." "Can you get them on the phone?" "Sure." The guy at American Express soon provided my answer. "I'm afraid, Mr Touzani," he explained. "that there hasn't been any payment from you for the past three months. It's not this company's policy to extend long-term credit facilities."
282
THE FRAME-UP
Three months. Thank you, Dennis. I had a platinum card which gave me a one hundred thousand dollar credit ceiling and I couldn't even pay a lousy ninety-dollar plane ticket. Thank you very much, Dennis! I wondered how many other payments he had neglected to make. With a feeling of hopelessness, I took my Mastercard from my wallet and handed it to the girl at the check-in. "Try this," I asked. She handed it back to me a few minutes later. "It's been suspended too," she said. "Then what am I supposed to do?" I asked. "I have to be in Sacramento this morning." "I'm afraid you'll have to pay cash, sir," said the girl. "Failing that you'll just have to make some other travel arrangements." I had no choice in the matter. By car the trip would have taken me at least nine hours which would have meant arriving at my destination after close of business. I had enough cash on me to cover the air-fare and the cost of renting a car in San Francisco but it was the last money I had. I finally arrived in Sacramento at about 11 o'clock in the morning and headed directly for my lawyers' office. Bill Baker and Ed Clifford had handled all my legal affairs, as well as for the previous two years and had always shown themselves to be competent and efficient. Today, however, they greeted me with less than their usual warmth. "Do you know what this is?" I asked, placing the thick pile of documents on the desk in front of me. Bill Baker didn't even both to look. "Yes, Bill," he replied. "We know exactly what it is." "Then perhaps you could explain it to me," I suggested. "No can do," said Ed Clifford. "By the terms of the temporary restraining order "Temporary restraining order?" I interrupted. "The injunction," said Ed. "You mean you haven't seen it?" "No," I admitted. He reached for the sheaf of documents, shuffled through them and extracted six pages from the bottom. "It's this," he said, handing them to me. I glanced through it. It didn't take more than a glance to see where I stood. I was forbidden to conduct any business relating to CBA, to sell or lease any property purchased with CBA funds, to have access to any documents or records belonging to CBA, to talk to any people involved
283
PRIVATE SCREENING
in business, to collect any royalty payments...the list of what I couldn't do seemed almost endless. "So you see, we can't possibly represent you," explained Bill Baker. "Apart from the fact that we've represented CBA and that this would constitute a conflict of interests, we are also bound by the terms of the temporary restraining order. In all probability we shouldn't even be talking to you now." "So what do I do?" I asked, with increasing desperation. "I need a lawyer." "We can recommend one," Ed replied. "A guy by the name of Jim Morris. He's based in Stockton. Considering that the hearing to make this order permanent - as well as any eventual court case will be held there it's a lot more convenient than Sacramento." I took my leave of them and drove directly to Stockton. Ed and Bill, though punctilious regarding their legal duty, had been sympathetic and had provided me with a copy of the CBA partnership agreement - it was the only document of any worth which was in my possession. Before I left, Ed Clifford had even reminded me of a warning he'd given me several months earlier: "I told you that you and Dennis Lawrence would end up facing each other across a table." "Yes," I replied. "You did at that." To my surprise,Jim Morris already seemed quite familiar with my case. I thought at first that Bill Baker and Ed Clifford must have told him about me but when I asked him why he knew so much, Jim merely pulled a newspaper out of his desk drawer and tossed it onto the Record and there, on the front page, table. The paper was the was a headline Investors sue partner for $5 million. "It's big news here in Stockton," said Jim. "Which is not all that surprising when you consider you're being sued by eight prominent Stocktonians." "So what can you do about this law-suit?" I asked him, pushing the heavy envelope across the desk. "By the terms of our partnership agreement, any dispute has to be settled by arbitration. They can't sue me. They've also slapped a temporary restraining order on me. It looks as if I can't do anything or speak to anyone." Jim pushed the envelope back towards me. "I can't look at that right now," he answered. "It would imply that I've accepted the case. Besides, the law-suit isn't all that important. Whether the matter's settled in court or by arbitration, it'll be quite a few months before it comes to a hearing and however the judgement
284
THE FRAME-UP
goes, an appeal could string it out even longer. No, our immediate concern is the temporary restraining order which is preventing you from doing any business at all. We must get that lifted as soon as possible." "Is it even legal?" I asked, suddenly hopeful. "The partnership agreement makes no mention of restraining orders. I'd never even heard of them until today." "An R.O. - a restraining order cuts across everything," repliedJim. "It doesn't matter what contracts went before or what their exact terms were. It's kind of like a trump card. It's also very much an emergency measure which is normally only used in absolutely catastrophic circumstances. The question is: are there any such circumstances prevalent in CBA at the present time?" of," I answered. "The only thing on the horizon "Not that I is a fiftythousand dollar royalty payment from Peter of Beverages. Apart from that, there's nothing that I can call to mind. Everything that the limited partners are complaining about has been common knowledge to them for several months. If they disagreed with any aspect of the business, they've had ample time to make it known. In all that time, I never heard the slightest murmur of complaint." "Then we're in with a chance," said Jim. "As to the law-suit itself, if you ask me it's no more than an attempt to scare you off. It would probably suit the plaintiffs perfectly if you just turned the business and the patents over to them, lock, stock and barrel, and retired into obscurity. As it is, they have no guarantee of winning their case. Or have they?" "What do you mean?" "They're accusing you of going on spending sprees with CBA funds. Is there any truth in their allegations?" "None at all," I replied. "They say I used CBA money to buy realestate all over the world. In fact the only things I own outright are a fifty-five thousand dollar house in Ohio and a twenty-six thousand dollar Mercedes in Holland. Everything else is heavily mortgaged and the banks will certainly foreclose on me if the repayments are discontinued. That will inevitably happen if the restraining order remains in force." "But were these things bought with CBA money?" pursued Jim. "Of course not!" I snapped. "Would I be fool enough to do something like that - especially when the books were kept by someone I didn't entirely trust? And that - God help me was certainly the case. No, all the money came from international licenses. It was never in the first place."
285
PRIVATE SCREENING
"How come?" "My European patents were filed several months before CBA was formed. My partners never showed any interest in investing in them. If you look at the terms of the licensing agreement, you'll see that CBA is only licensed for the United States and has no right to royalties issuing from any other source. The partners have always known this they signed the agreement after all - and nobody's made the slightest fuss about my international royalties up to now. In fact I allocated about one hundred and twenty thousand dollars of this money to CBA to cover any non-company-related expenses. This was specifically for personal purchases and for filing international patents." "And that was all?" asked Jim. "That was all. Dennis Lawrence, my book-keeper, assured me that he would keep my own personal account and account quite separate. It's beginning to look as if he hasn't been doing that lately. God knows what the books look like now." "Well," said Jim, "if they're alleging embezzlement, it's pretty certain that the books will have been adjusted to suggest that." We spent a further two hours in discussion during which Jim still gave me little indication that he would handle the case. Finally, however, he gathered the documents together and placed them in front of him. "Look," he said, "I think that's about as far as we can go today. Come back next Tuesday and we can go over the case in detail and plan our attack on this restraining order." "Next Tuesday?" I exclaimed. "That'll be the seventeenth! The hearing to make the order permanent is only two days later." "Don't worry about that," replied Jim, calmly. "We can apply for a postponement. It's quite normal under the circumstances. Of course there is the question of my retainer." "How much?" I asked, full of foreboding. "Ten thousand dollars." "I don't have it," I shrugged. "I spent the last of my money just getting here." "Can't you get your hands on it somehow?" "I can try," I said. do my best." "Well try to get as much as you can," said Jim. "Leave the documents with me and...well...see you on Tuesday." In spite of the size of his retainer, I left Jim's office feeling relatively happier about the situation. He seemed capable and efficient; he had been quite dismissive about the law-suit and had given me every
286
THE FRAME-UP
reason to be hopeful regarding the restraining order. The money, of course, was a problem. I had nineteen thousand dollars in my European bank-account but it would take some time to get my hands on it and between that day and my next meeting with Jim there were only two working days. However, I still had a few friends left and I was sure that I could count on them for a short-term loan. The next stop on my schedule was Sacramento again. I had not seen my son Andrew for several weeks and I felt like a junkie in the first stages of withdrawal. Fenny had never seen him at all and, despite the horrors of the last twenty-four hours, she was looking forward to meeting him for the first time. Forty-five minutes after leaving Jim's office, I parked our hire-car in front of Lisa's house. I was full of pleasant anticipation and the worries of earlier in the day were almost entirely eclipsed. My heart sank, however, as soon as I reached the front door. There was a yellow Postit stuck there bearing the curt message. "We are not at home. Phone me later." Phone from where? L Jolla? Did she expect me to return there a and then drive back later to see Andrew? Did she expect me to hang around on the streets for a few hours and then use a public phone? There was only one thing we could do: we checked into a motel a couple of miles away and I spent several hours racked with anxiety about what had happened. Perhaps Andrew had had an accident and Lisa had taken him to hospital. No, she'd surely have said that in the note. Probably she'd just taken him out for the afternoon and had plans for later in the evening. There was certain to be some very innocent reason for the message. Finally Lisa did pick up the receiver. "Hello, Bill," she said. "I guess you got my note, huh?" "Yes," I replied. "What's going on?" you," she said. "Look, I don't know what it is that you're mixed up in but I guess it's pretty serious stuff. Your name is all over the newspapers and they're saying some awful bad things about you." "I know," I said. "My friends have been ringing me up all day and I've decided to take their advice." "What advice?" "Bill, I'm not letting you have Andrew again. The way things are right now I just don't know what you're going to do. You might even decide to skip the country with him. I can't take that risk. You understand?"
287
PRIVATE SCREENING
I understood all right. I understood that Lisa was paranoid and I would probably never see Andrew again. I also understood that Dennis Lawrence had not only reduced my business-life to ashes but, in one deft sweep of the hatchet, had cleaved right through my personal life and splintered it to matchwood. A day earlier I had been full of optimism and suddenly my life was in ruins.
I spent a second restless night in the motel in Sacramento. I saw myself sliding over the brink of a bottomless chasm. My family and friends were reaching out to save me but as soon as my hand made contact with one of theirs it simply slipped away from their grasp. "Look out for Dennis Lawrence!" they screamed. "Don't let him get you! And from the bottom of the chasm rose a mephitic stench the poisonous breath of the great beast Dennis. By morning, both Fenny and myself looked and felt like earthquake survivors. We ate a hurried breakfast and then drove to San Francisco to see Peter I hadn't so much as set foot inside Peter's office before he grasped me by the arm and hustled me out of the building. "We can't talk here," he muttered, as he thrust me through the door. "I'm bound by the restraining order too." We ended up in the gloom of a nearby bar. "I warned you, Bill," said Peter, as we skulked in a corner like criminals on the lam. "I must've warned you a dozen times. But you wouldn't listen, would you? You should have dumped Dennis Lawrence months ago. Hell, you should never have taken him on in the first place. The trouble with you is you're too damn trusting too soft hearted. And now look!" "Okay, okay!" I replied. "You're right. But how could I have known it would come to this? What I want to know now is where you stand you're my lifeline, you know." "Well I won't be your lifeline for very much longer at this rate," he answered. "I've already been on to Dennis Lawrence and he says that he's not at all sure he's going to honor our agreement. He claims it's invalid." "There's nothing invalid about it!" "It was faxed," said Peter. "You signed a fax. He's claiming that that invalidates it." "Bullshit!"
288
THE FRAME-UP
"I agree," said Peter. "It is. Nevertheless, if he doesn't honor the agreement, we're finished. We're finished anyway if the restraining order isn't lifted." come?" "My investors will back out," he explained. "As far as they're concerned you are CBA. If you're unable to conduct your business, so are we. And even if you come out of this squeaky clean, enough mud will have stuck to blacken the name of the collapsible bottle in the entire American business-world. We sell to kids - don't forget that. We need a healthy image. We don't need a product that's invented by some guy facing embezzlement charges." "Tell me something I don't know," I replied. "Look. I'm seeing a lawyer on Tuesday. He seems confident that he can get the order lifted." "I sure hope he can," said Peter. "Listen, Bill. do anything in my power to help. speak to your lawyers; speak to the limited partners. make any deposition or affidavit you like. Just get this order lifted, will you?" certainly try," I said. "'Cause if you don't, 1'11 have to file for bankruptcy. There'll be no alternative." "I hope it won't come to that," I replied. "The problem right now is that I need money to fight this thing. My lawyer's asking for a ten thousand dollar retainer and all my money's in Europe. Dennis has done a pretty efficient job of cutting me off from any funds here in America." Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out his check-book. "Will two thousand help?" he asked. "Of course," I replied, too tired and desperate to be embarrassed. "I also need some cash." Peter emptied his pocketbook onto the table. "Sixty bucks," he said. "It's all I have on me right now but you're welcome to it." Fenny and I flew back to San that same afternoon. In any other circumstances my house at La Jolla would have been a refuge but now, far from that, it was even doubtful whether it still belonged to me. What was more, I knew that I would have to confront the ominous pile of letters that Dennis Lawrence had left on my coffee-table. I had not had the time, or, to be honest, the inclination, to look at any of them until then. Some had been opened already - probably by Dennis
289
PRIVATE SCREENING
- but I hadn't had the courage to examine their contents. I had a fairly good idea of what they would contain. My suspicions were confirmed as soon as I began. My mortgage repayments had not been made and the bank was on the point of foreclosing. There had been no repayments on either my car or my motor home for the past three months. There were letters from American Express and Mastercard informing me that my credit cards had been suspended. I began to experience a terrible feeling of trepidation. If no repayment had been made on the motor home for three months it meant that no repayment had ever been made the vehicle was only three months old. I dived into my car and drove directly to the parking-lot where I'd left it. Sure enough, there was an empty space where it had once stood. "What happened to my motor home?" I asked the attendant, angrily. "Repo man came," he answered. man?" "It was repossessed," he explained. "Repo company came a few days back." As I drove back to my house I began to see a certain pattern in these events. It was too much of a coincidence that these foreclosures and repossession orders had materialized at the same time. All the correspondence regarding my personal finances had gone either to the CBA offices or to Dennis Lawrence's private address where, until relatively recently, I had lived myself. All the payments had ceased three months earlier when I had gone to Holland. It was becoming increasingly obvious that Dennis had set out, very deliberately, to ensnare me. When I took possession of my motor home he had assured me that he would see to it that all the repayments were made on time yet he had clearly never made a single one. All other repayments had likewise been his responsibility. The fact that all credit had stopped precisely at the same time could only suggest that he had contacted the bank and the credit companies directly and had told them that I would be unable to meet the repayments and that CBA was not responsible for them all to coincide with my return from Europe.
The following two days were the first since the founding of CBA in which I did not think of business. I suppose that part of this owed itself to the simple fact that there no longer seemed to be a business to think
290
THE FRAME-UP
of but most of it was the result of a deliberate policy of trying to block it out of my mind. Both Fenny and I had been in something approaching a state of shock since the law-suit and the restraining order had been served but now she, at least, was beginning to come out of it. For her, after all, it only meant that a two-month fairy tale had come to an end. For me, it was a disaster of major dimensions that threatened to destroy years of hard work. I sought comfort with van den Fenny and I drove up to Los Angeles and spent the weekend with him. I had always been welcome at the van den house and now was no exception. Predictably, joined the chorus of those who had warned me of Dennis Lawrence in the past and whose warnings had gone unheeded but he did not really blame me for not having listened and pledged his support in my efforts to get the order lifted. While I was in L.A., I contacted many of the other licensees and manufacturers to hear their reactions to the news. There was the consensus that I had expected: by now, of course, they had all heard about it and were unanimous in their declarations of support and their fears that a continuation of the restraining order would spell the end for them. The licensees also informed me that, if the restraining order were to continue in force, they would refuse to make any further royalty payments to CBA. They pointed out that part of their licensing agreement consisted of an undertaking on part to provide them with all necessary technical support. Since I was the only person capable of furnishing this, my continued absence from CBA would leave my partners in breach of contract. During these conversations it soon became clear that everyone who was in the slightest way connected with either CBA or myself had received a copy of the temporary restraining order. Not only did this Pop Shake and Popeet but also General Foods, include Unilever, Mitsubishi and the other giants. The effect of this was immediately devastating. Shy as they had been of taking up the collapsible bottle in the first place, the big corporations were now quick to suspend any further exploitation of the technology. I was not to realize the full extent of this damage until later, when, in Europe once more, I discovered that none of the major companies with whom I had previously been negotiating would talk to me unless it was through their legal department. Dennis Lawrence had been extremely thorough: he had mailed out copies of the temporary restraining order to everyone concerned before I had even had an opportunity to defend myself in front of a judge. In one week he had
291
PRIVATE SCREENING
put one hundred million dollars worth of potential and existing contracts in It was almost as if, in view of the possibility that his strategy might fail and that he would be fired from CBA, he was trying to do both myself and the company as much damage as possible. stopped at a Mastercard On Monday morning, van den automat. He had promised me what financial support he could muster but he was also plagued with financial problems and had no money in his bank-account. Instead he borrowed two thousand dollars on his Mastercard and gave that to me. On the same day, I telephoned my bank in The Hague. Fortunately, the manager recognized my voice and, against bank policy, confirmed that my balance stood at thousand dollars and agreed to wire thirteen thousand to my account in San This transaction would still take several days however. On the following day - Tuesday 18th April 1989 - Fenny and I left the house in L Jolla early in the morning for our drive to Stockton. a Nine hours later, we pulled into the parking lot in front of Jim Morris's office to find the two Bernstein brothers waiting for us with a further two thousand dollars in cash. I added it to the other money I had brought and the four of us entered the building and made our way to Jim's office. Jim Morris was grim-faced. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know that one of the partners who's suing you is Dan Terry. Stockton's a close-knit community, as you know to your cost, and I'm afraid the guy's a friend of mine. I hope you realize the position that puts me in, Bill. I can't possibly agree to represent you. It just wouldn't be fair on you. It would be hard for me to remain unbiased." "Great," I replied. "I'm beginning to wonder if there's a lawyer who can represent me." "There is," said Jim. "There's a new law-firm started up in this building. They're good and they need the work. take you there." A we trooped out of his office, I was suddenly gripped with panic. s Jim's claim that it would have been difficult for him to remain unbiased did not seem a sufficient excuse for his giving up the case. After all, wasn't it a lawyer's duty to defend his client to the best of his ability, irrespective of his personal feelings? It seemed rather more likely that, having examined the complaint, he had decided that I stood little chance of success. We followed Jim to another office on the same floor. There he introduced us to Steve Clair and left us alone with him.
292
THE FRAME-UP
Steve was a stocky, dark-haired man in his early thirties. He didn't waste much time in small talk but led us directly to the conference room. As soon as we were all seated, he began. "Jim Morris has briefed me on your case and has given me the documents. be happy to handle it for you but I'd better say here and now that 1'11 need a fifteen thousand dollar retainer." I was thunderstruck. Fifteen thousand dollars? I'd had the greatest difficulty in raising the six thousand I'd brought with me. Either these lawyers refused to handle my case at all or they demanded a king's ransom for doing so. Suddenly, all the unfairness and injustice crowded in on me. I felt tears welling in my eyes. "Listen," I said. "I don't have fifteen thousand. Jim Morris asked me for ten and even then all I could come up with was six. What sort of country is this anyway? Last week I was in control of a multimillion dollar business. I was the majority shareholder of a company dealing exclusively with the United States and I was outright owner of another dealing with the rest of the world. Now I'm even denied sufficient money to conduct my defense. Do you call that justice? The day after tomorrow they're going to make that restraining order permanent and lose everything I've worked for. And all for the sake of not being able to afford a lawyer." My voice seemed dull and muffled unrecognizable as my own. I struggled to contain my emotions but my breath came in short gasps and my cheeks were wet. I wasn't the only one in tears: Fenny was sobbing quietly and the Bernstein brothers too looked close to breaking down. "Okay," said Steve. "I appreciate your position. Give me what you've got now and pay me the other nine thousand as soon as you can. Don't worry. represent you." Still breathless, I counted out four thousand dollars in hundred check on top of the pile. Steve dollar notes and placed Peter began to leaf through the documents in front of him. Finally he looked "Okay, Bill," he said. "As I understand it, all the alleged personal expenses and your international ventures were paid for by yourself or from monies that you loaned to CBA. And it seems to me that your They even admit that international business is no business of themselves. It says here in section twenty-three of the complaint 'subsequent to August 12, 1985, defendant Touzani caused partnership funds to be used to finance foreign patent applications and the licensing of persons in foreign countries under those patents, and to pay
293
PRIVATE SCREENING
ious patent attorneys for work performed in efforts to obtain foreign patents, all of which are not within the scope of the partnership's business'. So it seems to me that whatever the outcome of this mess may be, it will certainly spare your international markets. I have, however, two questions. First, there is a xeroxed copy of a one hundred thousand dollar CBA check here signed by Dennis Lawrence which they claim was used to pay for your apartment in Morocco. Why was this CBA check issued?" I was stunned. The check looked genuine all right. The signature was certainly that of Dennis Lawrence. "Well," I replied. of all I don't recall the CBA account ever having more than a hundred thousand bucks in it at any one time, so issuing a check for that amount is pure fantasy. Secondly, I've never even heard of this check and I certainly didn't authorize it. I'd say Dennis Lawrence forged it in order to incriminate me." "That's a pretty serious accusation you're making there," said Steve cautiously. "Well either that check's a forgery or I'm lying through my teeth and since I'm not lying it has to be a forgery, right? Listen, Steve. The apartment in Morocco hasn't even been purchased yet. It still belongs to my licensee over there and I merely retained it for forty thousand dollars that I wired him from Holland. The whole thing was a gentleman's agreement - there's nothing on paper." "Okay, how about this ABI that they claim you are the sole owner of?" "That's also a lie. ABI doesn't exist. It was to be a corporation that we intended to form as soon as possible but has so far not yet been created. My partners, Dennis Lawrence and some of the manufacturers were to be shareholders and it was to be the exclusive marketing arm for our containers. You see, CBA is a limited partnership and had been licensed my first patent which was called simply Collapsible Bottle. ABI however was to be licensed for the use of a second patent entitled Hollow Articles. This involves hundreds of applications that go well beyond the bottle application license granted to CBA. The strategy of having two companies was to protect us against liability but mostly to bring an end to an ongoing fraud involving royalties paid by our licensees." "Hold on now, Bill," exclaimed Steve, "A minute ago you were have to remind you speaking about forgery and now it's fraud. again that those are very serious accusations. Where does the fraud part come in?"
294
THE FRAME-UP
"We've been receiving royalties for at least three years well over a million dollars worth in return for a patent that my licensees believe to be valid. However, the technology itself was already available on the U.S. market and I hadn't been in business very long before I discovered that my patents weren't enforceable and that they couldn't even put a stop to foreign imports. Over ten million dollars has been invested by my licensees. Now that's a lot of money by anyone's standards and they managed to raise it because their financial backers truly believed in the integrity of our patents. For several months now it's been common knowledge to all concerned that the patents are simply not valid. The result's been that my licensees have threatened to stop paying royalties and may even take us to court on fraud charges for the money they've already paid us." "How would the new CBA and ABI licenses protect you better than the single CBA license?" asked Steve. "Well if you looked at the new contracts you'd see that each one of them specifically addresses the possibility of its licensed patents being invalidated. This was meant to alert the investors to that eventuality. Secondly, even in the case of invalidity of our patents, they would have to pay royalties as compensation for our know-how for our technical support. As you can see now, if they go through with the restraining order, not only will it forbid me from talking to my own patent attorney to revise the claims on my patents, but my licensees will have no further source of this technical support. That'll leave CBA and myself in breach of all our licenses past as well as present." "I see," murmured Steve. "It looks very much as if your partners are cutting their own throats." "Don't forget," I added. "CBA has only four employees, and that includes myself and a secretary. I worked out of my house for three years with no assistant, no word-processor, nothing. Our first office opened exactly one year ago, at which time Dennis Lawrence became my first employee. Up to that time, all of my book-keeping and accounting was done by Mrs Schwemley's own son - right here in town and he accepted the informal way I handled my financial affairs, as did all my partners." "Hmmm!" grunted Steve. "That's the sort of arrangement that's okay as long as everyone goes along with it. When that ceases to be the case you're in big trouble." "I'm not an accountant," I replied. "I never pretended to be one. I was always in the factory. I'd pay for my groceries with CBA checks because I didn't have my personal checks on me and then Kevin
295
PRIVATE SCREENING
Schwemley would adjust the payments through the books. Nobody ever complained. Everyone wanted me to spend my time with the bottles instead of sitting behind a desk organizing the paperwork. As far as they were concerned, I was the mad scientist and you don't expect a mad scientist to be a whizz with accounts." "And now they're claiming to be victims," mused Steve. "Right!" I exclaimed. "It wasn't until Dennis Lawrence joined the records were on anything like a formal footing. company that And then I trusted him. After all, he did claim to be an accountant. In fact, he basically had a year to do anything he liked with the books. I was either in the factory or out trying to sell our product." "It looks as if he made a good job of them," observed Steve. "So far he's fooled eight partners, several lawyers and a judge." "You think I've got a chance?" I asked. do what I can," replied Steve. "But we've got four thorny problems ranged against us which is why I asked for a fifteen thousand dollar retainer. Firstly we're fighting doctors and if there's one person a judge is leery of offending it's a doctor - judges are usually getting on in years and doctors are the only people between them and God. Secondly, almost all of your partners are of Arab or Iranian descent and I'm has probably the biggest sure I don't need to remind you that Middle-Eastern community outside Dearborn, Michigan. Thirdly there's Mrs Schwemley. As we all know, her husband was killed in a car accident two years back and she was left severely disfigured. Now I wouldn't go so far as to say that she's been railroaded into this business but it seems pretty strange that she's been named as trustee and is apparently leading the attack. It looks as if they're counting on some sort of sympathy vote and you can bet your bottom dollar she'll be sitting in the front row in court. Last but not least, there's their lawyers. They normally specialize in medical malpractice suits so you can be damned sure that they're going to do their level best not to lose this case it would certainly mean their kissing goodbye to a lot of business in the future. In short, we can expect a dirty fight." We continued to discuss the case for some time. Steve Clair questioned the Bernstein brothers and, from what they told him, seemed satisfied that my version of events was true and accurate. I was grateful that they'd elected to accompany me: had they not been there to back me up, even I might have begun to doubt my credibility. Finally, however, we felt that we had covered all the points at issue and Steve arranged to meet us at the courthouse on Thursday morning. Before we left, I handed Steve five share-certificates.
296
THE FRAME-UP
"I'd like you to hold onto these," I said. "They may well come in useful. They represent a share I gave to van den two years ago - a way of saying thank you for services rendered - and four other shares that I granted a few weeks back." "I think they're going to be invaluable," said Steve. "With your own share this makes a six-eight split in any vote aimed at amending the partnership agreement. Your partners need a two-thirds voting majority to change anything and they won't have it." "It's a seven-eight split, in fact," I replied. Steve shot me a quizzical look. "There's another share that belongs to my ex-wife," I explained. try to get the certificate from her." "Even better," declared Steve. Fenny, the Bernsteins and I made our way to a nearby branch of Denny's and ordered sandwiches and drinks. The interview with Steve Clair had drained me of my last ounce of energy and I didn't want to discuss the case any further. The Bernsteins both assured me that they would be there in court and, with their support as our only comfort, we and headed for San Francisco. left We had decided to spend the next day in the Bay area. I was badly in need of some sort of distraction and I thought I might find it by showing Fenny around my old haunts. It was a mere impulse that led me to turn off for Alameda. A few minutes after driving out of the tunnel which linked Alameda island to Oakland, we pulled up in front of a new apartment block. I knocked o n one of the doors. It opened. "Hello, Bill" said Birgit. I was surprised that Birgit knew all about the law suit and the restraining order. "Did you read about it in the papers?" I asked. "No," she replied. "I heard about it from Dennis Lawrence. Bill, why didn't you ever listen to me? I warned you about him two years ago! You always have to learn the hard way, don't you!" "So everyone keeps saying" I replied. "When did you see him?" "Dennis? I didn't see him. He phoned me." "Why would he do that?" I asked, fearing that he'd been trying to put pressure on her. "Believe it or not, he wanted to ask me what sort of guy you were." "I'd have thought he'd have known that by now."
297
PRIVATE SCREENING
"He said 'You've known Bill for many years. You used to be married to him. Would you say he was a violent sort of guy?'. I asked him what he was getting at. 'Do you think he might come after me with a gun?' he says. 'Well,' I said, 'if he doesn't, I will'." "Good for you!" I said. "It's a pity you don't have one." "That's what you think," replied Birgit, with a grim smile. She left the room and returned a few seconds later clutching an ugly-looking scatter-gun. "What the hell are you planning to shoot with that?" I asked, in amazement. "Elephants?" "It's for my own protection," she said simply. "Look, Birgit," I said. "I know Dennis Lawrence's big but he ain't that big." "I get nervous here. I hardly dare walk the streets alone. There's something very wrong with a country where you can't do that, don't you think? Just look at what's happened to you. If there was any justice in the world, you'd get your business back and Dennis Lawrence would end up in prison but we know it doesn't always work out like that. Anything goes in this country. If you're clever enough you can get away with murder literally." "I suppose you're right," I admitted. "But if you think like that, why stay here?" It's not as simple as that and you "You mean 'love it or leave know it. I've a good job here. I've even got a new boyfriend a naval officer. I've got ties. But I am thinking of going back to Germany." I knew about the job but I hadn't heard about the boyfriend. A few weeks earlier - just before I'd gone to Holland and met Fenny I'd spent a day with Birgit and had accompanied her to work. She was a salesperson for a nearby shipyard and I'd watched as she went round a navy frigate with some high-ranking officer, discussing this and making notes on that, preparatory to making a tender for repair-work. I'd been impressed with her efficiency and the way in which she had mastered such a specialized job. Fenny and Birgit got on well together. It wasn't really very surprising: they were both blonde, blue-eyed Europeans after all. Add to which, Fenny was also roughly the same age as Birgit had been when I met her. "You still like 'em young, I see," had been Birgit's comment. On another level, however, their friendship was surprising. Generally speaking, there is no great love lost between the Germans and the Dutch. In Holland, the horrors of the Nazi occupation are still
298
THE FRAME-UP
deeply engrained and, just as even young Germans are still cagey about discussing the war, many Dutch men and women cannot approach these near-neighbors without a certain amount of tight-lipped antagonism. Most of the time their resentment lies well below the surface but it does reveal itself occasionally: most obviously whenever the Dutch national soccer team plays against their old enemy. Then it's not so much a needle match as a time to fix bayonets and charge. Fenny and I stayed at place for a little over an hour. We talked over old times and our plans for the future and avoided discussing CBA as much as possible. Too soon, it was time to take our leave. "Take care, Bill," said Birgit, as she kissed me goodbye. "I hope it all works out." We drove away to find a cheap hotel. "I like Birgit," said Fenny simply. But I was never to set eyes on her again. A few weeks later the San Francisco area was hit by the largest earthquake since the disaster of 1906. Alameda was at the very centre. I was in Europe then and as soon as the news broke I tried to phone Birgit to find out if she was okay but all the lines to California were jammed with similar calls. It was not until several weeks later that I was able to call Alarneda but all I received was a number-unobtainable message. I would like to think that Birgit had simply returned to Germany as she had wanted to do but I cannot think of her, or that flimsy apartment building, without feeling that perhaps she never made it. She was the closest friend I have ever had.
299
16 . R.O.2
The hearing had been scheduled for ten o'clock in the morning. According to Steven Clair, my presence there should not, in theory, have been necessary as he was merely to apply for a postponement. However, he had advised me to come anyway. "This is as weird a business as I ever heard of," he'd said. "In my opinion, virtually anything could happen. I think you'd better be there." In the event, I was one of the first to arrive. As Fenny and I chatted to the Bernsteins outside the courtroom, I saw Dennis Lawrence's familiar bulk loom over the top of the stairs. He walked past us, wheezing heavily, but didn't so much as glance in our direction. A few minutes later, Mrs Schwemley and Dr Thomas also arrived. They too did not acknowledge our presence. When Steve Clair turned up he looked even more grim- faced than Jim Morris had done two days earlier. "I've got bad news," he said, in a low voice. "Dennis Lawrence and Dr Thomas have both filed charges against you for contempt of court." "What?" I exclaimed. "They claim you broke the terms of the restraining order by phoning them." "Sure I phoned them," I said. "When I phoned Dennis, I didn't even know there was a restraining order. Even when I phoned Dr Thomas I didn't know I was forbidden to speak to him." "Unfortunately, ignorance is not usually considered a defense," sighed Steve. "Let's just hope the judge sees it your way." "What'll it mean if I'm convicted?" I asked. "It'll mean a fine," Steve replied. "Or a stretch in prison if you refuse to pay it." be able to "Refuse to pay it?" I echoed. "I very much doubt that pay it! How much will it be?"
300
THE FRAME-UP
"Hard to say. It depends on the judge. Probably a few thousand dollars per count." "A few thousand dollars? It might as well be a few million," I said. "I don't have a red cent. How long would they sent me to jail for?" "Five days on each count. Ten days in all." "And they could take me straight there?" "Yes. They might not, of course, but it's quite conceivable that the sheriff will take you away at the end of the hearing." Suddenly, it seemed that things were going rapidly from bad to worse. Until then I had entertained the vague notion that the whole business had been some sort of stupid, tragic mistake, that reason and sanity would prevail, that the partners would finally come to their senses and see how they had been duped. Only a few hours ago, it had seemed as if my presence that day would be a mere formality and that a postponement would be granted as soon as the court was in session. Now I was facing a situation in which I could not only be deprived of my livelihood and my family but also my liberty. And what about Fenny? What would become of her? Why the hell should she suffer? With this in mind I turned to the Bernstein brothers. "Look," I said. "You've got to promise me one thing. If they convict me of these charges and haul me off to prison, you've got to look after Fenny. See that she gets on a plane back to Holland, will you?" "Sure," they said. "Don't worry. We'll see to it." "Bill?" said Steve, suddenly. "Before we go into court I have a question for you. You said yesterday that you wanted to have a chance to put your case to the partners directly. Well, now it looks as if they're going for the jugular. Do you still want a discussion in view of what's going down now?" "Yes," I said, shaking my head sadly. "I don't know what monstrosities Dennis Lawrence's told them to make them act this way but, as far as I can see, this is just one more reason for talking to them. Besides, I don't think I could rest easy if I didn't give it a shot." "Okay, Bill," shrugged Steve. "It's your funeral. talk to their lawyers about it." After spending a further few minutes in consultation with Steve over my defense against the contempt charges, I entered the courtroom with my heart in my shoes. The hearing hadn't even begun and already I felt as if I'd lost. The courtroom was far from full. On one side sat Dennis Lawrence, Mrs Schwemley, Dr Thomas, their two lawyers and what looked like a
301
PRIVATE SCREENING
couple of reporters, on the other were Fenny, the Bernstein brothers, Steve Clair and myself. As soon as Judge Demetras had taken his seat, I noticed that he seemed unusually intrigued by Fenny's presence. I guessed he was wondering where she fitted into all this. No doubt he had already marked me down as some sort of spendthrift gigolo. The court was brought to order and immediately the lawyers representing the plaintiffs approached the bench and presented Judge Demetras with the two charges of contempt. "Your honor," said Mr Siebert, the senior of the two lawyers, "the defendant willfully and knowingly breached the restraining order by attempting to speak to our clients Mr Lawrence and Dr Thomas." "My client was completely unaware of the terms of the order, your honor," replied Steve. "He cannot be held responsible for breaching the order when he was ignorant of its very existence. Calling his office was a normal thing to do even if he had not been served with any papers. What's more, he needed the keys to his house and car which were in Mr Lawrence's possession. As to Dr Thomas, his secretary informed him that Mr Touzani was on the phone and he had the choice of accepting the call or not." Finally, as luck would have it, Judge Demetras shared his views. "Mr Siebert," he declared, "Mr Touzani had just arrived at the airport after a long flight. There he was served with a parcel of documents three or four inches thick. I think it perfectly reasonable, under the circumstances, that his first reaction would be to phone his company for clarification. As regards the brief conversation with Dr Thomas, Mr Touzani had still not had sufficient time to examine the restraining order in detail and had had no opportunity to consult a lawyer. When Dr Thomas told him that he was unable to speak to him, Mr Touzani made no further attempt to renew the conversation. I therefore dismiss the charges." I was relieved but my head was spinning. Everything was moving far too fast. Less than fifteen minutes earlier I had been pretty confident that the morning's proceedings would be a short formality culminating in a postponement. I had then been told that I was being charged with contempt and I was suddenly looking at a prison sentence. Just as I'd been struggling to come to terms with that possibility, the charges had been dismissed and I was back to square one again. It seemed far too much for one person to bear. I heard Steve muttering beside me. he was saying. "Tactics."
302
THE FRAME-UP
With the contempt charges out of the way, Mr Siebert and his colleague turned their attention to the temporary restraining order. Apparently Steve Clair had already filed a request for a postponement as Judge Demetras immediately asked Mr Siebert if he wished to respond to it. "I do, your honor," answered Siebert. "We feel that any postponement of the hearing will severely damage my clients. Defendant is here in person and, in our view, has had ample time to retain counsel." "Your honor," replied Steve. "I was only retained by my client two days ago and I have had insufficient opportunity to examine the complaint and prepare a satisfactory defense. I therefore request that the court grants this postponement." "Agreed," replied Judge Demetras. "The hearing will reconvene two weeks from today." He was about to rise when Steve halted him. "Your honor," he said. "After consultation with the counsel for the plaintiffs, we agree that Mr Touzani should be allowed to talk directly to his partners." "Yes," said Judge Demetras, rising from his chair, "I think that would be a good idea too." "Okay, Bill," said Steve, as we left the courtroom. "I'm going to be very busy over the next few days. The first thing I have to do is contact your lawyers in Sacramento and get them to send me all the documents they have relating to the case. In the meantime I want you to get in touch with all your customers and manufacturers. I want affidavits from as many as possible preferably from all of them to use in your defense. Can you do that?" "Sure," I replied. "I can even have them here in person. Is there anything else I can do?" "You could always try praying." It was during the drive back to L Jolla that the strain of the past a few days, and, more particularly, of my court appearance that morning, began to hit me with its full force. In my entire business career I'd always been self-possessed and selfconfident. I'd thought of myself as a man of steel for whom no challenge was too great. There had been setbacks but I'd always managed to overcome them one way or another. There had been periods of hardship when I'd had to borrow money from friends and partners merely to pay the rent but I'd ridden out every storm. Sometimes I'd even seemed the stronger for it.
303
PRIVATE SCREENING
Now I felt shrunken and alone. I had broken down in Steve Clair's office only two days earlier and I was still constantly on the verge of tears. Fenny had not known me for very long but she had never known me like this and, as we drove home, she began to get increasingly concerned. "I don't know what it is," I muttered. "It's just everything, I guess. The last time I felt like this was many years ago when I was much younger. I never told you before but I tried to commit suicide. Twice. Don't ask me why - I don't know. I didn't know then either. I felt terribly depressed but I was never able to say why." "Try not to worry," said Fenny. "I'm here and try to help you through it as best I can. I love you if that's any help." No sooner had I closed the front door of my house than the doorbell rang. It was Richard Anderson. "I've been trying to talk to you for days," he said. "I thought you'd be back sometime today so I've been hanging around outside. What the hell is going on, Bill?" I gave him a brief of the recent events. My story left him stunned, if not entirely surprised. "Well I've had my share of problems too," he said, at last. "That's really why I wanted to see you. It's Dennis Lawrence again, I'm afraid." I groaned. "Now what?" "Well, we finished the art-work for the export catalog a couple of days after you left for Europe," he explained. "At least we thought we'd finished it. Dennis Lawrence shows up, takes a look at it and points out some totally insignificant fault and I mean insignificant. 'You'll have to re-do it,' he says. So we re-do it. Next time he comes the thing's with the printer and we're all ready to roll and there's another fault, or so he says. He orders it pulled out. Then along comes Dennis on another tour of inspection. I swear, Bill, it almost looked as if he was setting out to sabotage the whole operation. B this time we'd wasted three weeks. I y wasn't going to wait for him to come by a fourth time so I told him to go to hell, pushed the whole thing through as fast as possible and delivered it to him." "You delivered it to him?" I asked, incredulously. "Oh, my God!" "Two days before you got back. I'm sorry, Bill. I didn't know what else I could do. I didn't know anything about a law-suit or a restraining order. I had no idea why he was making life so difficult for me." "You gave him all twenty-five hundred catalogs?"
304
THE FRAME-UP
"'fraid so. We've got a couple of spare copies left but that's all." "Great! Fantastic!Just what I need!" "I'm sorry, Bill. It seemed the only thing to do." "Sure," I said. "Sure. You weren't to know. You know what his game was? He wanted to delay the printing until after the restraining order was served. Then he'd have told you to go to print and claimed the whole thing was his own work. 'Look what I got done when Bill Touzani was out of the way,' he'd have said. The implication being that it'd never have got done with me around. Listen, Richard. Can you need it." write this down in a sworn affidavit giving all the details? "Sure." "Good." Richard Anderson visited us fairly regularly over the next few days. In a way, I was glad of his presence as it helped prevent me from brooding on my wrongs. Unfortunately we had another visitor whose presence was not quite so welcome. I was sitting in the living-room one evening when I happened to glance out of the window. Across the street I saw a man who bore a striking resemblance to Alfred Hitchcock casually strolling along the sidewalk. I watched him carefully. Just as he was about to disappear from view he made a sudden right turn, crossed the street and began to stroll back on our side. "Dennis Lawrence!" I exclaimed. "I'll bust the bastard's ass!" In fact I didn't intend anything quite so violent. My immediate plan was to step outside the door and rely on my sudden appearance to scare him off. Fenny, however, took my words literally. She sprang up from her seat, grabbed me by the arms and held me firmly. "Bill!" she shouted. "Don't do it! Can't you see that's exactly what he wants. You'll be playing right into his hands!" It only took a moment to see that she was right. As I continued to watch Dennis' slow progress outside my house it soon became clear that he was attempting to provoke me. It was true that he lived nearby but he never usually walked near my home. Come to think of it, he never walked anywhere if he could avoid it. As further evidence that this was no mere coincidence, he kept glancing towards the house and, as he drew level, he even looked through the window. It wasn't as if he were trying to see if I was at home or not: my car was parked in the driveway and I certainly couldn't be anywhere else. Two possibilities occurred to me. The first was that he actually wanted me to run outside and set about him. He could then file
305
PRIVATE SCREENING
charges of assault, or perhaps even attempted murder, against me and this would effectively be the last nail in my coffin. I would be faced with the choice of either skipping the country and never returning or going to prison for an extremely long time. Either eventuality would leave Dennis in effective control of the company. The second scenario was even more extreme: I would rush out of my house, intent on doing Dennis physical injury, and he would then pull out a gun and shoot me to death self-defense'. Too extreme? I didn't think so. I could still remember vividly Dennis' dark-blue automatic and the rage that had contorted his face as he waved it under my nose. I could still recall his words too: "This is my way of keeping what's rightfully mine." He had meant it: there was no doubt about that. A his words rang in my mind, a chill ran down my spine. If Dens nis was carrying a gun, and I had every reason to believe he was, he certainly wouldn't hesitate to use it. In the days that followed, Dennis became a regular visitor to our street. I had known for a long time that he had designs on my house but it was becoming increasingly certain that they extended to its occupant. His conduct was growing ever more brazen. Some days he would even stop, approach the living-room window and look right in. He knew very well that I was there: he couldn't have missed seeing me if he'd tried. On several occasions we even stared at each other to-eyeball. Under any other circumstances it might even have been funny. I was grateful that Fenny was with me. Had she not been there on the first occasion, I'd certainly have left the house and one or other of my scenarios would have come true. Her continued presence was the fly in Dennis' ointment: without her he could have done just about anything and, in the case of my actually surviving, it would have been his word against mine. And my word didn't seem to count for much just then. Finally my money had come through from Holland. It didn't go very far. Steve Clair had shown himself willing to wait a little longer for the balance of his retainer so I brought the repayments on my house and car up to date and deposited what little that remained in my tercard account in order to cover the minimum default and allow me to use it. At least I would now have a roof over my head, food in my stomach and some way of getting to court.
306
THE FRAME-UP
My meeting with the limited partners was scheduled for April 26th in Stockton. I made this known to all my manufacturers and licensees and asked them to be present. With the exception of Issie Kroll and Mike Sander of Popeet, who were in New Jersey, all of them accepted readily. As before, Fenny and I left La Jolla in the early morning and arrived in in the afternoon. Since the meeting was scheduled for later in the day, we went directly to Steve Clare's office where we Peter, like the others, had agreed to had arranged to meet Peter swear an affidavit. Of all the sworn statements made by my business contacts I expected Peter's to carry the most weight with the partners. The completed document stated the present and future position of in no uncertain terms. Two paragraphs stood out as crucial to our case. Currently, stated Peter, two investors have discussed putting several million dollars into my company to allow me to expand. The investors are aware of this lawsuit by the limited partners and have indicated to me that they may be reluctant to invest if Bill Touzani is not involved. I believe their position is reasonable, as substantially all of my contact with CBA has been through Mr Touzani. The other important statement referred to the alleged misappropriation of CBA funds: ...I approached Bill Touzani for the right to the European markets. We entered into a letter of intent. Pursuant to our tentative agreement, I paid Touzani the sum of $250,000against future royalties. To sum up, Peter declared: I do not believe CBA would benefit from the removal of Mr Touzani as general partner. He has run the business from the commencement of my relationship with the company, and knows the business from top to bottom. Once Peter's affidavit had been taken, Fenny and I left Steve's office to get some dinner. The meeting was to be held at eight pm at the offices of my partners' attorneys in downtown Stockton. Peter, who had a pressing business commitment that afternoon, agreed to meet us there. As soon as the elevator doors sighed shut behind me, I saw that the collapsible bottle family had turned out in force. Gathered together in van den Steve and the reception area were Peter Bruce Bernstein, Max Voss and Steve Clair had brought along his colleague John McKinley. Looking around, I felt an increas-
307
PRIVATE SCREENING
ing sense of optimism: I had all the chief manufacturersand customers of CBA on my side. Only Popeet was unavoidably absent. Surely this show of solidarity alone would be enough to convince the partners that they were making a big mistake. The first of the plaintiffs arrived shortly afterwards. As they entered, they studiously avoided any contact with us and hurried through the reception area towards their attorneys' office. Only Dr Thomas paused to exchange a few friendly words with van den they had now known each other for some considerable time and Dr Thomas had visited Al's factory on a number of occasions. We didn't see Dennis Lawrence arrive and I began to wonder if he would be present at the meeting. It wasn't long before Steve, John McKinley and I were called through. We entered a large bare room. The partners, Dennis Lawrence - who must have arrived in advance and their attorneys were seated around the wall. In the center of the room stood three chairs. "Where are the bright lights and the rubber truncheons?" I thought. "Where's the portrait of Joseph Stalin?" Mr Siebert motioned us to sit down. We obeyed. At last the time had come for me to have my say. "Gentlemen. Mrs Schwemley," I began. "I must say that I'm completely amazed by this recent turn of events. When this company was formed, I went to a very great deal of trouble to formulate a partnership agreement which removed all possibility of your interfering in the business or removing me as general partner. The licensing agreement which I issued to CBA, as the inventor the only agreement which the U.S. patent office recognizes as valid - specifically gave me eighty-four percent general partner shares as compensation. At the time, I might add, my role as general partner was more important to me as a way of controlling the destiny of my patents than as a potential source of income." I paused. The partners were impassive. "I didn't stipulate any performance requirements for CBA," I said. "I didn't even establish any dollar amount below which I could retrieve my patent rights. My only concern was to ensure that I was never separated from my invention. For your part, you accepted that your investment in the company was on a total risk basis and that if you were unhappy with that situation - or any other aspect of the running of the company - you could pack your bags and leave. The first draft of our agreement that was submitted for my signature was a joke, gentle-
308
THE FRAME-UP
men - an insult to my intelligence. I spent two months rejecting and amending it. Two months and thousands of dollars in lawyer's fees." Mr Seibert stroked his nose reflectively. Nobody else moved a muscle. "It seems to me that there's only one purpose behind this restraining order and that's to deprive me of the funds I need to fight the lawsuit. And the law-suit, gentlemen, is illegal! Any dispute between yourselves and me is to be settled by arbitration it's down there in black and white in the partnership agreement. Somebody - and we all know who that somebody is has tied me up pretty neatly. On the one go on for several years and hand I have a law-suit which will is doubtless intended to wear me down through a process of attrition and on the other hand a restraining order to prevent me from contesting it." Nicely judged, Dennis! Bravo! Gentlemen, I can assure you all that Welles but that under Mr Lawrence here can look and sound like this imposing exterior is an incompetent crook." Mr Siebert started and began to scribble on the in front of him. "And before anybody considers serving me with a writ for slander, let me say that Dennis Lawrence has defrauded many people in the past every case of which is a matter of public record and we are little more than his latest victims. Take a peek at the records in San courthouse, if you don't believe me." I stared straight at Dennis. I had to hand it to him: he was cool. He made a cucumber look like a chilli-pepper. He didn't even alter his expression. "And if you wanted to ensure the destruction of the company," I continued, "you couldn't have picked a better time. I don't think there's ever been such a crucial period in our development. At the present moment or at least up to your serving me with this restraining order there were several major, international companies poised to do business with us. As the patent-holder in Europe and Japan, I was going to allow CBA to export direct to these countries which, as I hardly need tell you, would have provided you with a new and lucrative source of royalties. As things stand right now, it's very doubtful that any of these deals will go ahead. By sending copies of the restraining order to all of the interested parties, Dennis here has effectively scuppered the entire operation. Not only that, he did so before I had a chance of putting my case to you. Do you call that acting in your best interests? I certainly
309
PRIVATE SCREENING
don't. You've all got some experience of business: would you send this sort of dirt to a potential customer? Never! Not even if it were true!" I could feel the emotion welling up inside me. I struggled to control it. "You can keep your law-suit," I said. "I haven't even had the time, or the heart, to examine its allegations in detail but I know one thing: my conscience is clear. It's the restraining order that has to go! You see the bottom line is this: if I can't do business then you can't do business either. Do you think we're just selling a product here? Of course we're not: we're selling the inventor! 1 improved on an existing technology; I commercialized it and I provide our customers with their technical support. Remove that and what are you left with? tell you what you're left with: eight partners, an office and an overweight accountant! Where's the logic in that?" Nobody attempted to answer that question. Some of the partners regarded me blankly, others were staring absently around the room. "Don't you see that these entire proceedings are the last act of a desperate man," I continued. "I intended to fire Dennis Lawrence as soon as I returned from Europe. He knew this was coming he's been expecting it for months. I'd already reduced his responsibilities to the point where all he was doing was handling the accounting and he got back at me in the only way left to him: through the accounting. In other words, he decided to get his shot in first. Listen, if you want to secure a bright future for CBA, don't get rid of me get rid of him!" Dennis Lawrence didn't so much as flinch. He sat back and regarded me levelly with his hands clasped comfortably over his wide stomach. "You knew what you were getting when you teamed up with me," I declared. "I didn't claim to be a businessman or an accountant. I was a technician, for God's sake. Kevin Schwemley Mrs Schwemley's own son did our accounts for the first three years and bet you haven't heard a word of complaint from him." Mrs Schwemley seemed embarrassed at this. She turned her head away and gazed at the window. "Kevin Schwemley always managed to isolate personal expenses from company expenses, so how come Dennis Lawrence seems to have had so much difficulty with it? He wrote you a letter several months ago telling you about the seventy-five thousand dollar loan I made to CBA and I personally discussed that loan with you. I've certainly never made any attempt to mislead you. On the contrary, you've known what I was doing all along the line. What was wrong about taking back
310
THE FRAME-UP
fifty thousand of that money and buying myself a house? A house, moreover, which is a mere shack compared with the mansions you live in. Dr Thomas? You knew what belonged to CBA and what didn't. You know very well that the real-estate I bought was purchased with international royalties which CBA borrowed from me. A letter to that effect was sent to you by Dennis Lawrence several months ago." Dr Thomas made no reply. He sat and watched me as dispassionately as the rest of them. "Okay," I said. "Let's talk about credit cards and let me ask you one thing: am I forbidden to have one? CBA certainly was it had no credit history. I did the company a favor by allowing it the use of mine. The understanding was - and this was an understanding that Kevin Schwemley always respected that personal and business expenses were to be kept apart. Now I'm stuck with an unpaid balance of twenty-five thousand dollars on my credit cards for company expenses dating back to the last Atlanta beverage show. Let's move on to the nature of some of these 'personal expenses', shall we? According to Dennis Lawrence's accounts, CBA paid for an engagement-ring I bought. Do you really think I would stoop so low and have so little class that I would buy my girlfriend a ring with company money? It's supposed to be a personal gift, God damn it! How do you think she'd have felt if she'd found out? And was I supposed to pay cash instead of using my own credit cards? Now let's consider the question of renting a car. Have you ever tried to rent a car by paying cash? Most of the employees at Hertz and Avis don't even know what a dollar bill looks like. Listen, gentlemen, the bottom line is this: Dennis Lawrence handled the accounts and if he put a personal expense down as a company expense, you ought to blame him and not hold me responsible! If you want to know the real state of our accounts, ask Mike Hudson. Of course you'll have to find him first. He seems to have mysteriously disappeared. He'd bear out that I've never been less than straight and honest with you." Dennis took a casual look at the partners and their lawyers and raised his eyebrows significantly. His expression seemed to say: "This guy will say anything to get himself off the hook." None of the others present met his glance. "I think it's pretty ironic," I continued, "that when I try to put our accounting on a formal, organized footing by hiring Dennis Lawrence, I end up by doing the exact opposite. If I'm guilty of anything, then I'm guilty of the sin of omission: omitting to keep a more careful check on what he was doing, that is. But what was I supposed to do? At the
311
PRIVATE SCREENING
end of the day, I had to rely on someone: I had to have confidence in someone - CBA was almost a one-man outfit anyway. And if you don't have confidence in Dennis Lawrence, why is he sitting there with you? tell you why: because guys like him can only succeed if suckers like us believe in them. Dennis can be very convincing as I know to my cost. Sure, he'd show me the accounts from time to time. With the benefit of hindsight, I can now see that he was very careful to make them look as confusing and complicated as possible. I thought at the time that it was probably a way of making himself look indispensable but there was obviously more to it than that. Later on I became more suspicious and that, gentlemen, is why the books were to be transferred two weeks ago at the beginning of this tax-year." to Michael I continued my monologue for roughly another ten minutes but my words were breaking against a wall of indifference. It seemed clear that the partners were only there to show the court that they had been scrupulously fair in giving me an opportunity to respond to their allegations. I felt as if I were in front of an unwilling jury who had already made up their minds about my guilt. "I'm sorry to have up so much of your time," I said finally. "Believe me, I could have spoken for a lot longer but I hope I've gone at least some way towards explaining Dennis Lawrence's real motives. A s far as I can see, the only remaining question is whether or not you genuinely want to straighten out this mess. If you do, the next step is perfectly simple: just set up a meeting - any time will do. All I ask is that I be allowed access to my office and my documents and you can then bring in any accountant you like. To conclude, there's absolutely no reason why this dispute should be reduced to a choice between Dennis and myself that's the logic of the playground, gentlemen. If you still feel that the company needs a manager then call in someone from outside. I can tell you right now that one simple employment ad will give you a choice of a hundred or so candidates most of whom will be better-qualified than Dennis and none of whom will have any question marks hanging over their honesty and integrity. As far as I'm concerned, however, you'll just have to face the fact - painful as it may be - that my continuing as general partner is indispensable to the wellbeing of the company. If you go ahead with this restraining order, you death-warrant." will be effectively signing I fell silent. Steve Clair stood up and looked around him. "Gentlemen. Mrs Schwemley," he said. "The real business of CBA is not taking place in this room, it's taking place in the field. And the field is represented by the individuals waiting on the other side of that
312
THE FRAME-UP
door there. If you really want to have a clear idea of how your recent actions will affect the company, I strongly suggest that you allow them to speak to you." With that, the partners' lawyers dismissed us. Steve, John and I were told to wait outside while they discussed whether or not to allow our customers a say in the proceedings. After a few minutes, we were called back in. "Our clients," said Mr Siebert, "have agreed to let one of the licensees address them. They feel that more than one would be a waste of time. Mr Touzani cannot be a party to the discussion." We chose Peter It was an obvious choice: was by far the biggest and potentially the most profitable of the companies that we were dealing with at that time. If anyone's words were going to carry any weight that evening, they would be his. Steve and John accompanied Peter back into the room. There, he reiterated all the arguments that he had given me and which were already summarized in the affidavit he had sworn. "Gentlemen," he said finally, "if you continue to impose this restraining order on Mr Touzani it will inevitably spell the end of my company. I hope I needn't remind you that I am your biggest customer. If I were to file for bankruptcy, this would automatically bring about the collapse of CBA - certainly as far as any large-scale implementation of your technology is concerned. Nor, in my opinion, is there any way that either you or I would recover: the American business-world will ascribe our failure to the bottle itself and there will be no further interest in exploiting it seriously." Of course I knew what Peter was going to say and I also knew that his concluding remarks constituted an irrefutable argument. I was hoping that when I was called back in front of my partners, they would acknowledge the truth of his words and offer to have the restraining order lifted. However, what we were all unaware of at that point was that Dennis Lawrence had adroitly anticipated Peter's testimony. As part of the official complaint against me, he had claimed that I had favored Sundale's offer for the one hundred percent fruit juice category above a competing, and more lucrative offer made by Minute Maid. In fact Minute Maid had never made any sort of offer but the allegation alone had already convinced the partners that Peter was my accomplice. Anything he said in my defense would be politely ignored. When I was finally asked to return, Mr Siebert handed me a sheaf of typed documents.
313
PRIVATE SCREENING
Touzani," he said, "my clients have unanimously voted to remove you as general partner." I was dumfounded. 1 glanced at the documents and saw that they had obviously been prepared well in advance. I had been right in my suspicions: the decision to oust me had already been taken. The evening's proceedings had been a cruel, unfair charade. But if I was dumfounded, Steve Clair was furious. "You have no right to do this!" he snapped. "The partnership agreement does not allow for the removal of the general partner! Nor has this been a partnership meeting but an interview authorized by the court to allow my client to put his case without contravening the terms of the restrainingorder. If you have any confusion on that point, I suggest you consult the transcripts made in open court. By this action, you have dissolved the partnership. The decisions you have taken are null and void!" There was no response from either the partners or their lawyers. "Come on, Bill," he grated, "there's nothing further to be gained here." He hustled me from the room. Outside, the collapsible bottle family immediately converged on us. "Well?" asked Bruce Bernstein. "What did they say?" "They've voted unanimously to remove him as general partner," replied Steve, indicating the documents in my hand. "Unanimously?" What do you mean unanimously?" shouted van den angrily. "I have my share certificate right here in my pocket. I haven't been asked to vote on anything! Who do these guys think they are?" "The whole thing's illegal," said a white-faced Steve Clair. "You're not kidding it's illegal!" shouted "I've invested half a million bucks for these yo-yos and they don't even give me my rights as a shareholder!" "You're not the only one, Al," I muttered. "There's Max, here. There's Birgit - she's had her share almost as long as you. There's Richard Anderson, Fenny, my brother I didn't hear of any of them being invited to vote." "They can't have a partnership meeting anyway without Bill," declared Peter "Don't worry. They'll never make it stick," replied Steve. "There's not a judge in the country would uphold a decision like that." "Let's hope you're right," said Al.
314
THE FRAME-UP
this. Never." Our discussion continued in the elevator and out into the lot. Most of the opinions expressed oscillated between outrage and sheer disbelief that the partners could have had the nerve or the presumption to try to vote me out of the company. As for myself, I was angry and confused. "I'm sorry to have to say 'I told you so"', said Steve, "but I did warn to these guys." "Well," I replied, "Dennis was right you against about one thing: they didn't want CBA incorporated because that would have deprived them of the sort of control they exercise today. I just wish someone would explain to me what a 'silent partner' really is. As far as I can see, it's a convenient way of avoiding responsibility when it suits you and interfering in the business whenever you feel like it. It's a pity we aren't all silent partners, don't you think?" "I can assure you," said Steve, "that from now on the partners will have to account for the results of their actions. Dennis Lawrence, if I understand it right, doesn't own a red cent and has nothing to lose." We were all pretty exhausted. It was now well past midnight but, as tired as I was, I was full of nervous energy. Sleep was still a long way Fenny curled up from my mind. I decided to drive back to San on the back seat and I drove through the night towards La Jolla. The period of one week which separated my meeting with the partners and the resumption of the court hearing was one of sleepless nights and gathering clouds of uncertainty. The optimism of previous days had almost entirely evaporated. I had been convinced that reason would prevail but reasoned arguments had failed miserably in my efforts to persuade the partners of my innocence and I had no expectations that they would succeed in the future. lnstead I had been tried and convicted on trumped-up charges and the more I thought about it, the more certain I became that the real hearing had already taken place. Judge Demetras would surely find it impossible to ignore the judgement of eight worthy doctors: he would merely ratify what they had already decided. I could no longer look at my house without that within a few days it might cease to become my property. Although I had just spent several thousand dollars in my efforts to prevent foreclosure, there were no further funds available to me and it seemed that I had merely postponed an inevitability.To rub the point in, I kept receiving bank-statements from Dennis Lawrence accompanied by letters
"I can assure you," said Steve, "that they'll never get away with
315
PRIVATE SCREENING
reminding me that the house was my personal property and that CBA had no responsibility for it. Although the restraining order prevented me from communicating with him, it didn't seem to stop him from communicating with me. The R.O. also forbade me from disposing of my house in any way and this seemed a direct contradiction of Dennis' claims about its ownership. I could only view the situation as yet another example of his erratic, illogical behavior - the sort of behavior which made him a threat to everyone, including himself. My feelings about the house were shared by Fenny who now, almost unconsciously, was beginning to gather things together with a view to moving out. Occasionally she would come up with a tiny sock or some other article left behind by Andrew and I would be reminded of the times when he had come down to spend a weekend with me. It was heartbreaking to think that I might never see him again. For nearly two years, Andrew had been my only source of comfort and consolation. When my mind had been full of bottles and business and Dennis Lawrence, Andrew would come out with some acquired skill in which I could take a simple delight and which put all my problems in their correct perspective. When my thoughts seemed cursed, like 'The Flying Dutchman', to wander the world from Tokyo to Sydney, from Holland to the East Coast, and when it seemed that sleep would continue to elude me to the end of my days, Andrew's little face would break into an innocent smile or he would toddle up to me and lay a soft, warm hand against my cheek and suddenly all the horrors of the world became as nothing. Andrew had been snatched away almost as if he had never been. Only the dusty mementos that Fenny unearthed testified to his existence. What crime had I committed that deserved such punishment? What could Dennis Lawrence, my partners, Judge Demetras, ordain for me that could possibly be worse than what I was already suffering? As I lay awake at night, listening to the distant hum of traffic and the inconsequential clicks and creaks of my house, I would rack my brain to find some sort of replacement for the peace of mind that Andrew had bestowed on me. There was none. My head was like a cauldron that had been sealed hermetically. It boiled and seethed and the rivets were working loose. Lawrence had condemned me to a seventh hell infinitely worse than anything that could be calculated in his imagination. Lawrence had murdered sleep. I listed my home for rental, starting the end of the month. It was in direct contravention of the restraining order which forbade me from selling it, renting it out or burning it to the ground and claiming the
316
THE FRAME-UP
insurance money. But what else could I have done? Dennis and the partners had been very careful to deny me any funds which might have allowed.me to conduct a proper legal defense and I needed additional money to enable me to carry on my business. Renting the house or selling it were the only solutions and I was damned if I wanted to live in the same town as Dennis Lawrence, let alone across the street from him. My new tenant was Bill Cowling, the chairman of the Dixieline Lumber chain. He arrived in his Rolls Royce, took one look at my home and agreed to rent it on the spot. He accepted my price of one thousand eight hundred and fifty dollars a month without so much as batting an eyelid, which made me regret that I hadn't asked for three thousand. Naturally I warned him about the restraining order but he seemed wonderfully unperturbed. "I used to be a cop in this town," he said. "Just let Dennis Lawrence try to walk in here."
I called Jeims Deimen in Ann Arbor, Michigan, to seek advice and give him my version of events. I had always thought of Jim as a true partner in this business and we had even discussed his joining the company as an executive. We had developed a trust and friendship that had brought us closer together over the past five years and I knew that he must be feeling just as betrayed by these doctors as I was. "Don't waste your time, Bill," he said. "I know exactly what the situation is: we're both screwed. You've been one of my best clients and working on your patents has been a full-time job for me lately. You owe me a great deal of money but more important than that is the amount of faith, time and commitment I've devoted to this. I've even put your name forward to be elected 'Best Inventor of the Year' by the National Association of Patent Attorneys. When I received a copy of the restraining order from Dennis Lawrence it made me sick and I'm going to stay sick for a long time." "I hope the R.O. will be lifted next week," I replied, without much conviction, "but if it isn't, you'll have to help me keep those international filings alive. I think the partners will do all they can to destroy any potential source of income from international markets." "You're right, Bill," agreed Deimen. "A few days ago I spoke to Dennis Lawrence over the phone and he declined responsibility for my bill, claiming that the fee represented work on foreign patents that were no concern of I'm afraid that bill will soon be exceeding one hun-
317
PRIVATE SCREENING
dred thousand dollars. It's money that is due to my foreign associates and there's only so much I can do for you." "Jim, I beg you, I said, desperately. "I promise find a way to send you ten thousand dollars, whatever happens. I've got to keep my European patents alive at all costs." "Never mind your European patents," snapped Jeims, "how about that freshness and tamper monitoring closure patent of yours? It's at least as important, if not more important, than your containers and it's not directly affected by the restraining order. Notice I say 'directly': since I'm forbidden to talk to you, all our business is affected by the damned order. But in the case of the closure this is absolutely criminal. Hundreds of people are dying every year, either from food-poisoning or because some crazy puts rat-poison in their yogurt, and you come up with a perfect solution which we can't do anything with because you're not supposed to speak to me. If this situation continues, it's not inconceivable that the partners will find themselves sued for criminal negligence for blocking a patent that's meant to save lives just so they can enjoy their greedy little games." The hearing reconvened at courthouse on May 5th. It began almost routinely: the attorneys were each allowed five minutes to put their cases; Steve Clair offered a succinct and reasonable argument in favor of the restraining order being lifted; Mr Siebert countered with an equally eloquent exposition as to why it should be upheld. The process departed from the norm when Judge Demetras asked Dennis and myself to accompany him to his private chambers. It was a move that took everyone by surprise, not the least being the two attorneys who would be excluded from the conference. Once in Judge Demetras' chambers, Dennis and I were seated next to each other. Dennis immediately nestled into a comfortable position and folded his hands across his belly. Judge Demetras settled himself behind his desk. A large security officer took up a station behind me and cast a warning look in my direction. "If I was going to throttle Dennis," I thought, "I wouldn't wait until I was in a judge's chambers." "Well, Mr Touzani," began Judge Demetras, "I really don't think you've got too much to worry about. If the restrainingorder remains in force, it won't be very long before this complaint against you comes to court and everything will be resolved then."
318
THE FRAME-UP
So that was it. He was to approve the restraining order. Once more, a decision had already been made. "Your honor," I began nervously. I felt myself shaking. "Your honor, if you uphold this restraining order I can guarantee that the business will come to an end and my inventions will be rendered worthless. May I remind you that I own almost the entire company while my partners own one, two, three percent at most. They can afford to play games - I can't. Since CBA began I have been working non-stop to turn it into a profitable concern in everyone's interests. Do you honestly think that this man here can replace me?" I jerked my thumb in Dennis' direction. "Just look at him, your honor! Around the office we call him the couch-potato! Supposing I retired from active duties in the company, I'd still have my eighty percent holding, right? What incentive does Dennis Lawrence have to operate the company efficiently? You surely don't think that he's going to work his ass off just to give me eighty percent of the profits, do you? My God, he gets paid little enough himself. The partners even complain about the thirty-five thousand dollar salary that I receive! So what, you may ask, is in this for him? tell you what's in it for him: my destruction. Dennis Lawrence hates my guts - it's as simple as that! In order to destroy me, he has to destroy the company and that's exactly what he's set about doing. It wasn't as if it was easy for companies to do business with us before when we were squeaky-clean - but, thanks to the allegations made against me, they won't touch us with a ten foot pole now. And I'm not just talking about the domestic market either: Mr Lawrence has been uncharacteristically efficient in sending copies of the R.O. to potential licensees all over the world. I know because I've been talking to them. The only way any of these companies will speak to me now is through their lawyers." Judge Demetras had let me speak without interruption. My thinking had been clear and succinct but something had happened to my words by the time they left my mouth. I found myself stuttering and stumbling incoherently and a simple word such as 'uncharacteristically' came out mangled beyond recognition. Maybe I'd been traveling too much there were too many shreds of foreign languages tumbling around in my head. From Dennis' point of view, my inarticulateness was manna from heaven, In spite of his manifold faults, he was by no means lacking when it came to pure, unadulterated cunning and he could see how I must have sounded to the judge in front of me. To Demetras I was quite clearly just another uppity for-
319
PRIVATE SCREENING
eigner stumbling around in the American business-world. I had clearly committed the mortal sin of not staying where I belonged. "Your honor," wheezed Dennis, "Mr Touzani here has been spending most of his time with his family in Morocco despite the fact that we've had many urgent matters in hand here." So now Judge Demetras' curiosity as to my origins had been satisfied. I was an Arab. As an Arab, I was bound to be dirty, scheming, untrustworthy and willing to sell my daughter's honor for the price of a narghile of hashish. There could be no doubt that I fed on sheep's eyeballs, amputated the hands of my enemies and used The Bible as toilet-paper. Thank you, Hollywood. There was no other course open to me but to attempt to retrieve the situation. "I wasn't in Morocco to visit my family," I said, "and if the truth be known, I hardly met any of them while I was there. A multimillion dollar factory is being set up in Casablanca dedicated exclusively to the development of my inventions. CBA stands to benefit enormously from it. Dennis Lawrence is a five percent shareholder in a limited partnership called CBI, for which he undertook to raise capital to develop the European market. He, more than anyone, should appreciate the mutual benefits that international and domestic operations can have. Frankly, I fail to understand why my partners have elected him as general partner for CBA when he's already a limited partner in CBI. Doesn't that create conflict of interest?" Judge Demetras, who had been listening to me with closed eyes, suddenly opened them and looked at Dennis. "What is this CBI, Mr Lawrence?" "I don't have the slightest idea, your honor," replied Dennis, smiling smugly. "I don't know what he's talking about." I was floored. Of course, realizing that the fate of the restraining order would be decided within the next few minutes, Dennis was certainly not going confuse his carefully selected issues in front of the judge. "But I do know," he continued, "that no more than three weeks ago Mr Touzani reduced a twenty million dollar guaranteed royalty from an American licensee to ten million. He cut it in half, your honor. And he did it over the phone and the fax machine from Europe. At no stage in the proceedings was I ever consulted." "Since when have I had to ask your permission, Dennis?" I snapped. "You were only the book-keeper then."
320
THE FRAME-UP
As far as the restraining order was concerned, Dennis' point was pretty irrelevant. If I had actually put the missing ten million in my own pocket, it would undoubtedly have had some real bearing on the fortunes had never been directed by consultative decicase but sion-making and Judge Demetras was surely aware of that. The real significance of what Dennis had said only dawned on me later. Here was an explanation for my partners' apparently illogical behavior. It was simple greed. My decision to reduce the royalty payment, which had been taken in the long-term interests of the company, had, of course, deprived them of their share of a further ten million dollars. That it had also deprived me of my share was clearly of no importance. Maybe, in their view, I lacked the subtlety which they saw as necessary at this stage in our operation. Maybe I was too quick to think on my feet, too rough-and ready, too much the maverick. What the company needed now, they thought, were managers and lawyers. They didn't want somebody hopping over the globe arranging businessdeals in places they'd never heard they wanted a smart, staid, articulate executive sitting behind a walnut desk - the sort of guy who gets out his calculator before he orders his sandwiches. To put it bluntly, I had passed my sell-by date. It was time for the inventor to retire and let the experts take over. Certainly, there was no point in pursuing that line of argument. I would have to confine myself to the legality of my partners' actions. "My partners are not allowed to remove me as general partner, your honor," I said. "You will not find a single word in the partnership agreement that will allow them to do that." "Mr Touzani," said Judge Demetras, carefully. "Just because your agreement does not discuss the removability of the general partner, it does not necessarily follow that he cannot be removed. We have here in California a law which allows for that. The limited partners are permitted to do so if they can muster a two-thirds majority vote." "But your honor!" I yelled. "It's not mentioned in the partnership agreement because I had the lawyer omit it. I rejected and amended five drafts before I was satisfied that all references to my removal were erased." "I haven't seen any drafts," objected Judge Demetras. "Are you aware of any previous drafts to the agreement, Mr Lawrence?" "No, your honor. I've never heard of any." "Perhaps I haven't been making myself clear, Mr Touzani,"continued the judge. "I have in front of me the only signed partnership agreement. I am not here to decide on how your partners should exercise
321
PRIVATE SCREENING
their rights - whether they can or cannot remove you will be decided later on when the case gets to court. For the moment, if I maintain the restraining order, someone else in the company will have to remain in charge and I can't see a doctor leaving his practice to do it." There was nothing more to be said. Unwittingly, I had delivered myself straight into their hands. I felt like a small boy distressed by the cynicism and unfairnessof an adult world. A I left the judge's chams bers, I paused with my hand on the doorknob. "Your honor," I said. "I am an American. In heart and soul." I was angry with Steve Clair. "Why didn't you tell me about this Californian law?" I demanded. "Now he says that just because there's no mention to the contrary in the partnership agreement, I can be thrown out anyway. I have five drafts of that agreement,Steve! It took five drafts and two months and thousands of dollars before managed to get the clauses about removing me deleted!" "You didn't tell me about the drafts, Bill," said Steve. "So how am I supposed to know? To tell you the truth, interpreting the partnership agreement didn't seem to be a priority for this hearing. Don't forget, Bill, until a few weeks ago I must have been the only person in this country who had never heard of the collapsible bottle." "Well somebody's been doing their homework anyway," I replied. But I really couldn't blame Steve. He'd had a lot to do at very short notice. Our opponents had had many months to prepare their case. "To be honest with you, Bill," said Steve, after a moment's thought. "Considering all the time and effort you say you put into seeing that the right to remove you was deleted, I'm surprised that Steve didn't add some sort of clause specifically forbidding it. All it would have needed is a simple statement to that effect under the heading 'Removal of General Partner'. Crabtree's an experienced lawyer he isn't exactly ignorant of Californian law. The fact that he didn't add a clause forbidding your removal suggests that he wanted to be able to invoke the law if need be and that he had the partners' interests at heart and not yours. If you ask me, your troubles began when you put your signature to that agreement. Now your chickens have come home to roost: firstly you couldn't reasonably be expected to carry a hundred pages of drafted documents around with you just to prove what you had in mind then and secondly, and most importantly, you've been denied access to them anyway." Judge Demetras resumed his seat in the courthouse. "The temporary restraining order will be granted," he said.
322
THE FRAME-UP
It was a simple formula of words but I knew that it spelled disaster for me. Suddenly all my frustrations and anger exploded at the same time. I leapt to my feet and pointed angrily at the judge. "This will destroy everything!" I screamed. lose my international patents! My business! Everything!" "But Mr Touzani," replied Judge Demetras, calmly. "CBA has no rights to your international patents. You will be able to continue your international business as before." There was no further point in arguing. I had already gone to considerable pains to explain that my international business had been just as badly affected as my American operation but my words had been conveniently disregarded. The hearing was over. "Why did he ask Dennis Lawrence and I back to his chambers?" I asked Steve, as we left the courthouse. "Probably because there's no stenographer there," replied Steve, matter-of-factly. "Nothing he said to you would go on record." "You mean there might have been some collusion between him and the partners?" "There might," said Steve. "Stockton is a small town, you know. And you're up against some very powerful people." just can't understand what they're playing at," I said. "They haven't been able to bring forward one customer who has anything bad to say about me. We've got affidavits from all of them saying what a good guy I am and how the business won't run without me. Affidavits which they, and the court, blithely ignore. I really can't see the point of their trying to win a law-suit that will effectively destroy their company." "You know the story of the man who got hurt in a car accident, Bill?" asked Steve. "No," I replied. "When he hobbled his way out of hospital, he came across an old friend in the street. 'Nice to see you up and about again, Joe,' says the friend. 'How long will it be before you can get rid of the crutches?' 'Well,' says Joe, 'my doctor says I can get along without them now, but my lawyer says I can't."' "You mean their lawyers might be behind it all?" I asked. "It's a possibility,"said Steve. "There's a lot of money in a law-suit, you know. For a lawyer. And winning is sometimes more important than what it is you win." I started back to San for what looked like the last trip I was going to make in a long time. I felt a sense of tragedy that went beyond
323
PRIVATE SCREENING
the personal. At a time when American business was beginning to lose its competitive edge in the face of either more advanced technology or cheaper manpower, it was shameful that intellectual property - which has always remained one of any nation's most important assets should be distributed in accordance with legal niceties rather than economic good sense. Had the judge conferred the running of CBA to a major company with a proven track record then there might have been some justification in wresting it from me. Instead he was condoning the installation of a cheap swindler as chief executive a man whose thirty-five thousand dollar salary had once been a major bone of contention between myself and my partners. The U.S. patent office had entrusted me with the exploitation of patents which could have advanced the existing level of technology and created employment for many. Now, through a series of quick legal maneuvers, a group of small-town lawyers had placed these patents in the hands of a total incompetent all for the sake of saving his job. behind me. It had come to symbolize I was glad to leave the final resting-placeof my American dream. Even then the disastrous ramifications of the day's events had not yet sunk in for either Fenny or myself. We were simply too exhausted to care. The thought uppermost in our minds was that, for the time being at least, the whole sorry business was over. We had no further expectations of the American judicial system, no ambitions, no hopes. All our energy and vitality had ebbed away, leaving behind it a barren desert of pulverized illusions. There was nothing to do now but finish our packing and vacate the house and to hell with the restraining order. The situation regarding my house still puzzled me.Judge Demetras had expressly forbidden me to rent it out or sell it - thereby providing me with my only available source of income but at the same time he expected me to pay hundreds of dollars a month to save it from foreclosure - hundreds of dollars that I simply did not have. It seemed to defy all reasonable logic. "It does for me too," agreed Steve, when I brought the matter up with him. "Unless, of course, it's a way of testing you." "Testing me?" "Look at it this way," he continued. "The partners claim you've appropriated thousands of dollars of CBA funds, right? But where's it gone? Your house is mortgaged, you don't drive around in a Rolls Royce and you're not exactly a high-liver. Conclusion?You might just have salted it away in some bank or other. There again, you might have
324
THE FRAME-UP
another source of income that nobody knows about. It would seem logical that if he deprives you of the obvious sources of money you're going to be thrown back on any hidden source and then, my friend, he's got you." it's a sort of game?" "It could be a sort of game." "And if he's wrong, it's okay for me to lose my house, is that it?" "That's it. You have to realize that he's probably far more interested in the law than he is in justice and fair-play. Hard as it may be, it's pretty standard procedure in such cases. You dangle the bait in front of your suspect and sometimes he goes for it, sometimes he doesn't." The signed copy of the restraining order was quick to make its way around the world. Dennis Lawrence saw to that. I had never hated the fax-machine so much in my whole life. I called Jeims Deimen to discuss our future strategy to keep up the international filings and assure him that I would do my best to pay his bills.Jim, of course, had already received a copy of the restraining order and had been expecting my call. He had already anticipated in detail what the future was going to be. "I've seen this situation many times, Bill," he said, sadly. "Too many times. It's like a domino-effect. Needless to say, your American operation is now in the process of destruction and will never recover." "That's a great comfort," I said, bitterly. "I'm sorry to have to put it like that," said Jim, "but facts are facts. Another unpleasant fact is that if and when this case comes to court or goes to arbitration, you'll find yourself up against people who know very little about patent law or the responsibilities of an inventor. You can talk till you're blue in the face about inventor's licenses, assignments, technology versus patents versus research and development but it'll all be water off a duck's back. They'll treat your business like any other. Frankly you'd be better off admitting defeat right away because the law will swallow up every cent you can raise and at the end of the day, when you're flat-broke and the case yet resolved, your partners will still be sitting on a pile of cash. They're wealthy people, Bill. They'll win by default in the end." "So you're saying there's nothing I can do?" "There's certainly very little you can do on your own. But there is a way out. As you know, I have invested a great deal of time and money in your project, not to mention my health. prepare some documents for you to sign which will give me sixty percent equity - enough
325
PRIVATE SCREENING
to gain a controlling interest in your patents. That will give me the muscle to save your foreign patents from abandonment and fight your partners for you." If anyone else had suggestedsuch a move, I would have regarded it as another scheme to steal what was rightfully mine. But I had grown to respect Jeim's Deimen's expertise and vision. With van den he was the only person to whom I would have turned over my business. In the past, his benevolence had cost him much: being cited as a defendant in the SCAT law-suit is just one example and I have to say, though it does me little credit, that I welcomed his misfortune because it provided me with a useful and powerful ally. However, as positive as Jim's proposal was, I did not want to commit myself to it there and then. At the back of my mind, I still entertained the vague notion that sooner or later I would get my hands on the sort of money I needed to pursue the case myself. Yet Jim saw this as the only way in which I could rescue my business and repay him for his trouble and expenses. He made his position perfectly clear in a letter which arrived a few weeks later when I was in Morocco: I find the actions taken by you as a general partner in both partnerships [SCAT and CBA] and the court actions taken by both limited partnerships in response absolutely incredible. the potential royalties world wide over the lifetime of the patents in the many countries is in excess of $500,000,000 U.S. This opportunity for all concerned is about to be entirely lost, if not already lost. As a third alternative to abandonment or payment above and at the risk of being accused of conflict of interest, I have enclosed an Assignment and a Security Agreement covering all of your U.S. and foreign patent applications and patents. Both must be signed and dated by you, witnessed by a consular official and returned to me before October 1, 1989. Only with a substantial equity interest in all of your rights can I attempt to interest others in immediately providing the funds to salvage whatever can be salvaged from this disaster. The terms are onerous but I must have sufficient ownership and power to offer investors a significant possibility of financial gain and as much protection as possible in view of the damage that has been done. Moreover, I believe I am entitled to an equity interest in view of the damage done to my professional reputation and the risk I have taken in trying to preserve the foreign applications with their incredible potential value rather
326
THE FRAME-UP
than immediately order their abandonment last spring when it became obvious that timely payment by you would not be made. Jim had made me an offer which represented the first real prospect I'd had of extricating myself. Little did I realize that it was my only prospect. I was still not entirely disillusioned with the American justice system and thought that, in view of the mass of documentary evidence submitted by the plaintiffs and the pitiful lack of it on my side, it was only reasonable that the restraining order had been signed. It seemed worthwhile to hang on in there for a bit longer. I had been in many tricky situations in the past and had always managed to survive one way or another. I certainly wasn't about to give in without a fight. When was I going to learn? I made a call to the only man who now stood between my continuing in business and begging for my old job with Picker International. I only hoped his professions of friendship had been genuine. I finally reached Kamal Laraqui at one of his offices in Casablanca. "I suppose you've heard about the restraining order," I said. "Sure," replied Kamal. "As a matter of fact I have it in front of me as we speak." I might have known. "I think I ought to explain that "You don't have to explain anything, Bill," Kamal interrupted. "I already know everything I need to know. My lawyers have reviewed the restraining order and it looks as if our international venture can go ahead without any interference from Dennis Lawrence." "You do realize that nothing will stop him, don't you?" "So what," said Kamal simply. "From now on I've got you all to myself." "Just like before?" "Better than before. You're the inventor, Bill. Nobody can dispute that." "Well, I'm sure Dennis will have a damn good try," I said. "Give him enough time and he'll convince some judge that I found the plans to the collapsible bottle in a box of Corn Flakes." Kamal laughed. "If you're still interested in the officein Paris, the offer stands." "What I'm really interested in is the factory," I replied. "As long as I've got that, I'm prepared to work out of a shoe-box. And live in the
327
PRIVATE SCREENING
lid. From now on I want full control of our products. When are we going to build it?" "What are you doing tomorrow?" His answer brought the first smile to my face in over three weeks. I had begun to hate my inventions with a passion but enthusiasm had changed all that in a matter of seconds. Yet I would never be able to love my work as I had once done: a residue of the resentment that I felt against my inventions would stay with me. In leaving America, I felt as if I were being forced into exile but there was no doubt in my mind that I wanted to be back home as soon as possible. The R.O. applied only to containers but even then I knew that the major project on the horizon would be the development of the freshness and tamper monitoring closure. If I was barred from joining that exclusive club of successful American businessmen, at least I might be remembered as the inventor of a product that saved lives. I was sure that that reward would compensate for the agony to which I had been subjected. I had never thought I would have to make this choice. At one time I had harbored a naive belief in the inventor's rights in American society. In good faith, I had licensed my European patents to Dennis Lawrence and the fraudulent Wexford Capital and the rest of the world to Rodney Commons, a crooked lawyer. A simple and successful as the s international venture was meant to be, the American operation had proved too great a temptation for them. It had lured them into breaking their contractual agreements and into attempting to heist my business from under my nose. They had ended up like a thousand other no-hopers who, having failed to make money by legal means, get themselves a stocking-mask and a gun and extract it direct from the bank. The only difference was that hardly anyone except me had seemed to notice.
328
PART THREE
CRIMES OF PATENT
329
330
17 . KAMAL
When I look back at what happened to me in the early months of The more I have examined 1989, I can only see it as a coup recent political coups - particularly the one which, in 1991, was unsuccessfully mounted against Mikhail Gorbachev, the President of the USSR the more I have seen obvious parallels with my own case. Naturally, I wouldn't go so far as to identify my own situation with that of a major political figure on the world stage. I am an inventor and a businessman and, although I have made a great deal of money for some people and have made life slightly easier for others, I haven't saved anyone from oppression nor have I made any significant contribution to the easing of international tensions. What I did was to take an idea and make it fruitful. This idea was nothing so grand as perestroika or glastnost: it was merely the exploitation of a neglected technology. Mikhail Gorbachev and William Touzani had a similar sort of success and almost identical failings. In as much as we were more honored abroad than in our own countries, we were both successful. In Gorbachev's case the word 'abroad' can be taken literally: in my own it refers to nothing more than the marketplace. He received the Nobel Peace Prize for his efforts: I received the enthusiasm of the general public and the respect of large corporations around the world. Our shared failing lay in the fact that we both neglected to acknowledge the threat at home. The threat too was similar. In the face of new ideas, there are many who prefer to stick to what they know, to adhere slavishly to a status quo which, though imperfect, is familiar and reassuring. In a word: conservatism.There are also those for whom the improvement of the general quality of life is much less important than the acquisition and retention of personal power, wealth and influence. In a word: greed. Mikhail Gorbachev's nemesis came in the form of conservative hardliners who saw their old power-base slipping from under them and,
331
PRIVATE SCREENING
even at the risk of destroying their country entirely, were prepared to accuse him of incompetence and mismanagement and forcibly remove him from office. In his efforts to befriend the enemy abroad, he had neglected the enemy at home. I too had disregarded the threat posed by my partners and my lieutenant, Dennis Lawrence. It was not a threat of which I had been unaware but I thought, no doubt as Mikhail Gorbachev once thought, that I had it under control. Dennis Lawrence had been useful in the past and perhaps might even have been equally usefulin the future in his role as the law-suit watchdog. Recognizing his potential for troublemaking, I had reduced his duties to those of book-keeper and would certainly have dispensed with him altogether had he not beaten me to the punch. I could understand Dennis Lawrence. His actions had clearly been motivated both by a desire to hang onto his job and by plain old-fashioned greed. I found the motives of the partners much less easy to comprehend. I still do to this day. They were innately conservative, as most doctors are, and perhaps they had been alarmed at the speed at which our star was rising, but what was the point of deposing of the leader only to be left with an impoverished and unproductive country? It seemed that they had little to gain by ridding themselves of me and everything to lose. Even if all their allegations of misappropriation had been true and Dennis had been pure as driven snow, wouldn't it have been better to have had a crook at the helm of a rich company than a saint directing a poor one? On reflection, perhaps the partners had opted for the middle ground and had decided to put a crook in charge of a poor company. I think no one would dispute the principle that if you want to exploit someone you must first discover their weaknesses. In this, Dennis was something of a virtuoso. He appealed to both the partners' conservatism and their greed by presenting them with a carefully tailored scenario in which I was forfeiting over half of Sundale's twenty-five million dollar contract for the duration of their patent rights in America while Peter was simultaneously showing interest in investing in the European market. Naturally, they were expected to infer that I was reducing Peter's royalty payment in order to release funds for territories in which CBA had no interests. Dennis neglected to tell the partners that Peter was soliciting outside investment for this project, that his investors had no interest in the American operation or that any investment in Europe was bound to benefit themselves eventually.
332
CRIMES OF PATENT
Furthermore, I had actually negotiated this reduction in payments by telephone and fax! How was it conceivable that a matter of this importance wasn't handled with the assistance of a regiment of hardened lawyers? How was it possible that I'd reached my decision without exhausting head-to-head confrontations in a smoke-filled room until the wee hours of the morning? Perhaps the result would have been the same but at least I would have been seen to have taken it with the necessary amount of seriousness. I guess their reaction to this news stemmed from a basic lack of commercial acumen and from their chronic failure to take any interest in the performance of CBA until such time as a policy decision had been reached for which they had no liking. They failed to see that Peter could not reasonably be expected to subsidize payments to sell two hundred million bottles when all the market would absorb was fifty million. To be a successful businessman, you must be prepared to be pragmatic on occasions: there is very little point in insisting on five million dollars when you haven't a hope in hell of getting it and when pursuing the matter will only bring financial ruin to your most successful client. At the outset, we'd been dealing with a new and unproven product and had I, or Peter, been aware of the exact point at which the market would become saturated there would never have been any talk of twenty-five million in the first place. Suddenly the partners seemed conveniently unaware that this vast sum had merely been a minimum performance requirement designed to guarantee them continuation of their exclusive rights. Holding Peter to the original agreement would merely have scared off investors and left him in the cold. And who, finally, had most to lose by such a reduction? I owned eighty percent of the company and could therefore look forward to reaping eighty percent of the profits. Maybe, after all, the partners and the judge had acted out of altruistic motives. Maybe they had decided that they were doing me a favor: they were protecting me against myself and if this meant breaching the partnership agreement and irrevocably destroying CBA, so be it. Given such circumstances it was clearly time for a silent partner to stand up and yell blue murder everyone had a right to that once in a while, didn't they? It was thoughts such as these that occupied my mind on the long flight from Los Angeles to Casablanca. I had decided to take Judge Demetras at his word and throw myself completely into my international business.
333
PRIVATE SCREENING
Kamal Laraqui was to be my first stop. At the Mohammed V Airport, Fenny and I were met by Kamal and my brother Wadi who were both eager to show me the changes that had taken place in my penthouse in the Residence El Manar. I was astounded. When I'd last seen it, the place had been a derelict clubhouse with a dirty swimming-pool, a long, dusty bar and a row of partially dismantled changing rooms. Now the swimming-pool was pristine; the bar had become a large, airy living room; there was a equipped kitchen and four magnificent bedrooms. "Mother did it," explained Wadi. "What?" I exclaimed. "All this? She must be pretty bushed by now!" Wadi laughed. "I mean she put up the money," he said. "I designed it: she paid for it." "Well sure as hell, someone must have," I said, "I only left you ten thousand. This must have cost a fortune." "She sold the house in Fez," he replied. "She spent eighty thousand on this place." "Eighty thousand! She must want me to live here real bad if she spends that sort of money. Eighty thousand! I don't even own it yet." "Do you want to own it?" asked Kamal, as if the notion had just occurred to him. "Sure I do," I replied. "At the very least, I don't have much choice after she's spent so much on it." "Well, there's one small hitch," said Kamal, ominously. "Dennis Lawrence sent a copy of the restraining order to your bank." "Good old Dennis," I said, bitterly. "It's a great pity that he wasn't as efficient at raising capital as he seems to be at pursuing me across the face of the globe. Frankly, I'm surprised you still want to do business with me." "I told you before, Bill: I don't take that sort of thing too seriously. In a few months the whole sordid affairwill be gone and forgotten and you can carry on as before. However, I have to say that, as a result of Dennis' intervention, it's highly unlikely that the bank will give you a standard mortgage. But I do know of a bank that will grant you one for three and a half years. How would that suit you?" "I don't know," I replied. "How much will it cost?" "Roughly fifteen thousand dollars a month."
334
CRIMES OF PATENT
"Well, I certainly don't have that sort of money now," I said. "But I will have shortly, if everything works out." "Look," said Kamal. tell you what do. If you can't meet a make it for you. In return I get a share in the monthly repayment, apartment. If you fail to make any of the repayments, the apartment will become mine. What do you think about that?" "It's very generous," I replied. "It sounds to me as if you're trying to get rid of it." "In a way, I am," admitted Kamal. "As you well know, I'm part owner of the building. What you don't know is that the King's sister is my partner. Without wishing to go into unnecessary detail, I want out. This is the last remaining property and I want to get it off my hands." A few days later, I signed the mortgage agreement and the place was mine. I was very proud of the penthouse in the Residence El Manar. As well as having been beautifully decorated by Wadi, it was the highest building in Casablanca and offered a stupendous view of the entire city. As far as the mortgage repayments were concerned, I could always comfort myself with the thought that if I was unable to meet them I would at least have the opportunity of living there for three and a half years rent-free. One of the first people I went to see after my arrival in Casablanca was my father. My father had once been in the private education business and had owned some schools in Morocco and part-owned others in France. Having sold his Moroccan schools to the government, he was now semi-retired. More as a way of occupying his mind than earning money, he worked as a justice of the peace out of an office adjacent to the royal palace. As an educated man as different to many of his colleagues - his advice was constantly being sought on all manner of business and legal matters. As Wadi and I entered the reception area of my father's office we saw a Kuwaiti gentleman leaving, accompanied by a very pretty and very young girl. In the reception area itself was another man a Saudi by his dress - with another pretty girl at his side. A bored policeman slouched in a corner and watched us without interest. My father greeted us warmly. It had been many months since we'd last met and we had a lot of catching-up to do. By now I knew that he and my mother were separated and I soon learned that he was not at all happy with her recent actions.
335
PRIVATE SCREENING
"Take this business of selling the house in Fez," he snorted. "It's absolutely ridiculous. And all to pay for that apartment of yours in the Tower of Sin." "The Tower of Sin?" I repeated. "The Residence El Manar," he replied. "The Tower of Sin I called it and the Tower of Sin it is." "Why?" I asked. "You mean you don't know?" said my father. "Take a look around you when you go back. It's full of Middle-Easterners rich, of course. And girls. And I don't mean nice girls either professionals if you see what I mean. They come here spending money like water and....well, there are laws against prostitution in this country." "Seeing as there are laws," I said, "why doesn't somebody do something about it?" "They would if they could prove anything," he replied. "These fellows aren't fools, you know: they're very discreet. You'll never see them with a girl in public. She'll either come to his apartment and leave an hour or two later or she'll be there in the first place and the fellow will visit her. There establishments." "Whorehouses, you mean?" "Well, I suppose you could call them that, yes, although they're by no means as up-front as you'll see in Amsterdam. Of course some of these types aren't nearly so discreet or so rich and powerful." "And what happens to them?" "They end up here." He waved his hand vaguely towards his office. "Take that Kuwaiti fellow I'm sure you saw as you came in," he continued. "Caught in some cheap hotel with that girl he was with. Well, they haul him up before the magistrate and the magistrate offers him the choice of spending two months as the King's personal guest or marrying the girl straight away. They don't usually quibble about it and we don't bother with too much paperwork they're allowed four wives and we aren't going to conduct a head-count in Kuwait. They come here from the magistrate, I marry them, pocket a couple of hundred dollars and there you are." It may seem strange to Americans that such mistrust should exist between fellow Arabs. After all, most United States citizens assume that all the peoples who live between the northern Atlantic coast of Africa and the Euphrates river share a common language, a common culture and common beliefs. To a certain extent, this is true but one should always bear in mind that the Arabic language embraces many different
336
CRIMES OF PATENT
dialects and regional variations, that the culture of Morocco is almost entirely different to that of the Gulf states and that even the Koran itself, like the holy books of most other religions, is open to a multitude of interpretations. The notion of pan-Arabism is a fairly recent concoction which tends to be used mostly by politicians whenever it suits their purposes. The reality of Arab politics is that almost every known persuasion is represented somewhere from paternalistic monarchism, through neo-fascist dictatorships to socialism - and that most are far more concerned with keeping inimical political doctrines out of their country than they are with furthering the cause of Arab unity. In this context it is not entirely surprising that most Moroccans deeply resent the fact that the scions of rich Middle-Eastern families use their country as a playground, committing the sort of acts that would get them in deep, not to say fatal trouble at home. Nor is it surprising that Morocco was reluctant to come to the aid of Kuwait in the recent Gulf War: a token force was sent to help defend the holy places of Saudi Arabia but there was no question of it's being used to restore the Al-Sabah family to power. The attitude of Moroccans to their Middle-Eastern cousins can be summed up by the fact that a Kuwaiti, a Saudi, an Iraqi or a Qatari, for example, must apply for a visa in order to enter the country and, once there, his presence tends to be a source of irritation. An American, on the other hand, needs no visa to enter Morocco and he is regarded as a welcome guest. The Christensen brothers were acquaintances of my brother Wadi and owned one of the biggest construction companies in Norway, specializing in multi-million dollar projects. At that time, they were busy building runways for NATO in Sweden the largest project of its kind in Scandinavia. The fact that they also owned several mines in Morocco, however, seemed strange to me if these two interests were connected, it was a connection 1 failed to see. On top of that, they seemed to want a license for my bottle and that was downright incomprehensible. It was enough to make me think of them as a very strange family indeed. "Bill," said Wadi, shortly after the beginning of my stay, "I've invited Christensen senior for a drink this evening. There might be something he can do for you in Europe. I've given him some of your bottles and brochures in the past and he's interested in representing you at least in the Scandinavian market."
337
PRIVATE SCREENING
This seemed like a case of It reminded me of when I had started CBA and had had to go all the way to Europe to plead my case in front of a German company and convince them to be my first licensees in the United States. It would be ironic if this time, in the aftermath of the coup in America, my first European licensee would be found in the African continent. Nils was in his fifties. He smiled a great deal and seemed extremely pleasant all round. In fact he looked as if a joke were about to spill out of his mouth at any moment, which was not a characteristic I normally associated with Norwegians. He had brought his wife and another couple with him. "This is Mr Lundquist," he said, indicating the other man. "He's a policeman from Sweden." Nils had an apartment in town and another one in Marrakesh the closest town to his mines. "I love Marrakesh," he said, looking at Fenny. "There's no other town like it. You must come down and visit it some day, Fenny. You can stay in my apartment." "If she comes down," said his wife. "I think I'd better be there too." Gee, I thought, they both have a sense of humor. I asked Nils about his business and he asked me about mine. I avoided mentioning anything about the legal action in the U.S., not that he should have been concerned anyway. Nils was showing interest in the European market which was free and clean. But it was Mr Lundquist, who really intrigued me. He was a tall man much taller than Nils and he smiled a lot too but it was the sort of smile that tourists put on when they feel ill-at-ease in their new surroundings. Finally he admitted that he was no ordinary policeman but the head of the narcotics department. He was taking advantage of his friendship with Nils to acquaint himself with Morocco. "There's a large Moroccan community in Sweden," he explained in the slow, sing-song tones typical of most Swedes. "Young people mostly." "Ah! Young people!" I exclaimed significantly. It was promising to be an interesting and informative speech but before it had even got off the ground, Nils interrupted him, thinking that he'd finished. I suppressed a smile: the problem with speaking without any recognizable intonation is that it's difficult for people to know when you've stopped.
338
CRIMES OF PATENT
"Did you know that this year there were more Norwegian women married to Moroccan men than to all other nationalities combined?" asked Nils, with an air of pride. I didn't quite know what to make of this information. Was this a compliment to Norwegian women or Moroccan men, or an insult to both? I decided to file it away with the other scraps I had gathered about Scandinavia - next to the world-shattering revelation, gleaned from a back-number of National Geographic, that in 1931 Finland had had the highest incidence of bovine tuberculosis in the world. The policeman, however, was shocked at the news. "But in Sweden we love Norwegian women!" he exclaimed. However, before Nils could inform us further about Norwegian mating habits, Mr Lundquist decided to plough on with his previous, and sadly interrupted, speech. "As I was about to say earlier," he commenced, monotonously, "There's also a lot of hesh coming from Morocco to Sweden." "Hesh?" I said. "Heshish," clarified Mr Lundquist. "Cannabis." "Oh, hash!," I exclaimed. "Yes, I suppose there would be." "And so I decided to take my vacation down here and educate myself about this country. I think I'm going to have to keep a close eye on your bottles, Bill." "Why?" I asked, mystified. Surely he didn't want a license too. "Well haven't you ever thought of filling them with hesh before you export them? If you're going to export empty bottles why not export full ones? A big drug arrest would do wonders for my reputation." "It probably couldn't make mine any worse," I muttered. "But let me show you something, Mr Lundquist." I grabbed a half-gallon jar, collapsed it and showed the inside to him. "If you can get anything bigger than a few postage stamps in there, eat my patent." "Amazing!" he said. "The bellows just about fill the whole interior. In that case, I suggest you look for another container." "And I suggest you try looking for another victim," I said, with the Hitchcockian shape of Dennis Lawrence coming to mind. It took us three hours to reach Marrakesh by train three hours traveling through some of the richest and most luxuriant farmland in the world. I couldn't help remembering a scene in the movie
339
PRIVATE SCREENING
ca where the French inspector says to Humphrey "How do you expect to find water in Casablanca? It's all desert!" Well, it certainly isn't. Sure, there are desert areas in Morocco notably to the south of the Atlas where the mountain slopes are swept by winds from the Sahara but the country hasn't been regarded as the pearl of Africa on account of its cacti. But then Casablanca had largely been shot in a studio and the nearest any of the cast got to North Africa was probably a cous-cous on Hollywood Boulevard. All the same, Morocco is a land that has always captured the imaginations of Americans and Europeans. From a distance, it symbolizes the mysteries of the orient (although it extends further west than Spain and Portugal) and the romance of the Arab world (although surprisingly few Moroccans are actually Arab). So my journey took place to a mental accompaniment of "As time goes by" and snatches of Crosby, Stills and Nash: Don't you know we're riding on the Marrakesh Express. Wouldn't you know we're riding on the Marrakesh Express They're taking me to Marrakesh... I'd been to Marrakesh on several occasions before but never by train. The last time had been only the previous year in the company of Myriam. We had even come across a real live camel and had stopped the car to take a few tourist photographs. So much for Lawrence of Arabia! The express rolled along at at least a hundred miles an hour - cutting through a gigantic plain dotted with thousands of palm trees and villas, swimming-pools and hotels. The sky was a deep, even blue and the air, fresh from the spring rain, was as pure and transparent as crystal. On our left, in the far distance, rose the snow-capped peaks of the Atlas Mountains, on our right the lush, green coastal plain continued to the ocean. Nils was waiting for us at the train station and bundled us into his 700 series BMW for the drive to our hotel which was only a block away from his apartment on the edge of the city. We had lunch there and then drove straight for the High Atlas Mountains. Nils wanted to give us a tour of his mine his wife and the Lundquists, for whom this excursion was nothing new, stayed back in Marrakesh. It is surprising to think of Morocco as having ski resorts anywhere and it is doubly surprising when you consider that the sands of the Sahara are only a few miles south. It is, however, the elevation of the Atlas Mountains, some of which exceed thirteen thousand feet, that
340
CRIMES OF PATENT
will forever stop these sands from moving north and which makes it uniquely possible to slalom in the morning and surf in the afternoon. After driving steadily upwards for about an hour, we reached an open plain where the ground was wet from the rain and melting snow. It was there that Nils pulled off the road and pointed out a group of derelict buildings. "That's where they shot the The Man who would be King," he said. looks like one lousy place for an execution." I said. "I mean the movie with Sean Connery and Michael Caine," laughed Nils. least that's not where they shot it - it's where the production crew had their headquarters. They shot the film up there." He waved his hand towards the surrounding peaks. "They built rope-bridges, temples...all sorts of things. Have you seen the film?" "Yes," I replied. "Well you'll remember the Tibetans then," he said. "They're pretty hard to forget," I answered. "And pretty hard to come by in Morocco, I imagine." "Impossible, I'd say," agreed Nils. "Anyway, they were really just Berbers with shaven heads." "That's funny," I said, shaking mine. "When I saw the film I could have sworn those guys were speaking Berber. I mean I have to admit that my Tibetan isn't all that fluent but what they said certainly sounded familiar." "Well now you know," said Nils. It felt strange that Nils was educating me about Morocco when I was born there. I wanted to have my shot at education too. "Berber's not at all the same as Arabic, you know. In fact it's totally different." "Do you understand it?" asked Nils. "Not a word. Oh, I recognize it when I hear it that's why I found the 'Tibetans' so strange - but don't ask me to translate for you." Morocco being mostly mountainous and most of the people being Berbers, it naturally follows that seventy-five percent of the country's population are Berber and not Arab. In fact another five percent are Jews and other minorities. While, for an American, Morocco is only the most westerly tip of a huge Arab nation, in reality the predominance of the Berbers in North Africa sets it apart from its Middle-Eastern neighbors - an identity which is the basis of the Maghreb unity which is sought by Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia and even Libya. This unity does exist in the economic sector which made Kamal's
341
PRIVATE SCREENING
venture in North viable but, politically, having a kingdom in Morocco, an erratic, unpredictable president in Libya, a none-toosecure socialist government in Algeria and a president for life in Tunisia, would leave any expert in political science scratching his head. The Christensen mine was nothing like a single narrow shaft going into a hill. Firstly it was open-cast and secondly it was huge. As we approached it, we passed an almost continuous stream of immense trucks coming in the opposite direction. The mine itself covered several acres and was a hive of activity. "We're mining a very dense rock which is used principally for the foundations of offshore installations," explained Nils. "Oil-drilling platforms, offshore terminals....that sort of thing. The stone is very hard and very heavy and resists corrosion so it's perfect for that sort of application." So there, finally, was the connection between the mine and the Christensens' civil engineering activities. Certainly whatever it was that they were mining seemed to be profitable and was very impressed with the sheer size of the operation and the investment it represented. The trip to Marrakesh had been interesting and relaxing - and I had certainly been in bad need of relaxation but now it was time to get down to business again. I was damned if I was going to lose my apartment in Casablanca to Kamal: I owed that much to my mother, if nothing else. At all costs, I had to devise a sound strategy which would generate badly-needed income as soon as possible. I was ready to involve Nils in my European market and he agreed to evaluate the potential for the containers in Scandinavia. First, however, I would have to make them. Back in Casablanca I had a meeting with Kamal and a couple of his designers and draftspeople in the grounds of the new factory. The factory itself covered an area of a hundred thousand square feet and was surrounded by a further half million square feet of empty ground. I showed Kamal documents detailing my proposals for the new plant. It was to include half a dozen injection-molding machines to produce our closures and another half-dozen blow-molding machines to manufacture the containers. All our designs were to be proprietary and possibly subject to further patent protection: this was a way of expanding my intellectual-property assets and evading Dennis Lawrence's attempts to sour my international operation by making fur-
342
CRIMES OF PATENT
ther exaggerated claims for single U.S. patent, for bottles only, with its overblown technical merits. The blueprints and descriptions that I presented to Kamal dealt with eight separate inventions involving five utility patents and three design patents, all of which were intended to expand on and compliment my achievements in the United States. I had little doubt that these achievements would eventuallybe recognized officially: in only a few months time the dispute between my partners and myself would go to arbitration and I would have ample time to prove my side of the story. Then, Dennis' expulsion and my partners' punishment would be inevitable. All the same, I wasn't about to leave anything to chance. I was painfully aware that America tends to be insular and self-preoccupied and that, for the average citizen, the rest of the world is so far away as to be effectively irrelevant. The longer my partners delayed the arbitration, the longer I would be obliged to conduct my business abroad and the more I would appear to be an interfering foreigner in the eyes of arbitrators and judges alike. I would become just one more troublesome immigrant who should stay where he belonged. It was therefore crucial that I developed further non-container applications for my inventions which would allow me to conduct some sort of business in the United States without breaching the terms of the restraining order. If I looked as if I were there to stay, my case would certainly be taken more seriously. So it was that Kamal was surprised to be presented with blueprints for adjustable-height lamps using the same bellows technology as the containers. There were lamps that could expand out of walls, be tilted, collapsed and holstered in special sockets. There were lamps that could erupt from flat surfaces with bases that were either weighted or wooden or provided with suction cups. There were bellowed joints that allowed them to pivot universally. All of these items would wholesale from twenty dollars and up and thanks to the cheap labor in Morocco, and despite the relatively limited production, they would provide us with a high profit-margin and turnover. "I suppose you want me to pay for filing patents on these new inventions," said Kamal, resignedly. "I wish I could do it myself," I replied. "Unfortunately I can't. Of course you might think that patent protection isn't necessary but I'd make a decision about it pretty quick if I were you: once we go into production it'll be too late."
343
PRIVATE SCREENING
"I didn't say I didn't think it was necessary," objected Kamal. "I have no experience in these matters, that's all. I've never had to start a business in which the first item on the agenda was patent protection. have to leave it to you, I'm afraid. just write out the checks." The two products that were immediately patentable were a cup to be attached to the base of the container, with an air-vent that released it without the consumer's having to pull or prise, and handles with two snap-on brackets that could fix the expanding bellows at a determined height. The suction-cup would be most useful for large containers or expandable trash-cans which needed two hands to extend. The handles would overcome a safety problem that had already caused me a considerable headache. "As you know," I said to Kamal, "our containers are pretty unstable. They have a small base in relation to their expanded height and the slightest push in the wrong place will cause them to collapse and spill their contents. In the case of a cold drink that's inconvenient and messy rather than dangerous but hot soup would be an entirely different ball-game." "Well hesitated Kamal. "You're the expert, of course, and I can see that the idea is very commendable and all that but don't you think you're making the whole business unnecessarily complicated? I mean first we have to tell the customer what to do with the container and then we have to tell him or her what not to do with it. At this rate we're going to have to sell every container with an instruction manual." "Maybe it'll even come to that," I admitted, "but I assure you that this is an essential accessory. In America, one of the very first Popeet sets to be sold tilted on the woman who used it and caused her severe burns. If she'd had the snap-on handle it would never have happened and we could have saved ourselves a quarter of a million dollars in claims for damages." Kamal gave a low whistle. " quarter of a million? What was she? A model?" A "NO." "Then I guess the burns must have been pretty severe, right?" "They were bad. Whether they were a quarter of a million bucks bad is a debatable point. She claimed her sex-life had been affected." "And had it been?" "Who's to say? I guess you have to take her word for that." "I get your point," said Kamal. "But I very much doubt that Dennis Lawrence is figuring out a way to make your bottles safer."
344
CRIMES OF PATENT
"That's no reason why we shouldn't," I countered. "Besides, he's hardly a good example of the caring face of capitalism. He knew that our American patents were invalid, as they stood, and the first thing he did before I got served with the restraining order was to take all the information regarding all patents anywhere and hide it a long way from public scrutiny. If he's doing any business at all right now, it's no more than a large-scale extortion racket." On this unpleasant note we ended our meeting. As soon as I got home I called van den in Los Angeles. "It's all up to you now," I said. "I've just gotten the green light for you to design the factory and buy your machines from Europe." "All expenses paid?" crackled Al. "All expenses paid." "You do own this factory, don't you?" "Forty percent of it." "In that case, send me a plane ticket. I'm on my way." Kamal had shown no hesitation in opening his check-book to establish a manufacturing facility and had kept his promises all along. Nevertheless, it came as something of a surprise when he asked me to meet him at a commercial bank in Casablanca. He would give me no further details over the phone and so I had no choice but to turn up as requested. At the Banque du Commerce et de I found myself participating in a meeting with Kamal and the director of the bank. It soon became clear that Kamal had asked for all future purchases to be made through bank-loans. He was talking about a two million dollar package, forty percent of which was to be my own responsibility. It was ironic that I'd had to negotiate special terms merely to buy my apartment in the Residence Manar and now I was expected to furnish adequate collateral for an eight hundred thousand dollar loan. There was no way I could do it: I had to accept Kamal as my guarantor. "I have to be cautious, Bill," explained Kamal. "It's all a result of your disputes in America. Don't worry I have full confidence in you. It's this Dennis Lawrence character that I don't trust." Instead of replying, I grabbed a calculator from the table and, while Kamal and the bank's director stared at me, I began punching in numbers. "If I fail to repay the loan, I lose equity, right?" I said. "Well that means that in exactly two years and four months my share-ownership in the factory will be down to zilch."
345
PRIVATE SCREENING
Kamal looked uncomfortable. "But it's okay," I added. "I understand. If I stop being your partner, and as long as I still have control of the European market, you'll simply start to be my supplier for Europe. I mean one of my suppliers for Europe." "Fair enough," said Kamal. What else could he say? We left the bank, got into Kamal's Mercedes and drove to and Bertrand, the best mold-maker in town. B the time we left, two y hours later, we had placed an order for six multi-cavity molds and made a downpayment of a quarter of a million dollars. It was the largest one-time order I had seen since the beginning of my business. Working at full capacity, we could expect a turnover in excess of fifty million dollars a year. Dennis Lawrence, I thought, eat your heart out. Although our investment in molds was high, it represented a guaranteed income. It might take six months to a year before our factory was fully operational but the molds could be farmed out to any plant inside or outside the country and start to generate income in a matter of weeks. Our products would have an expensive, modern appearance and would be practical and safe. With all its patents and molds, our company would look substantial and respectable. There was only one drawback me. "I think we have to do something towards re-establishing your respectability," said Kamal. "Oh?" I replied. "Look, Bill. You've been in the business for five years and that's a long time with this sort of product you'll get a good deal of credit just for that. But you must bear in mind that European businessmen are more conservative than their American counterparts. For them, the personal history of the individual they're dealing with is every bit as important as the price-list. As soon as you establish your Dutch corporation we'll have to come up with some good promotional material. B y the way, have you thought of a name for it?" "Touzani," I said. "Touzani BV." "It stands for Vennootschap. Don't ask me what that means - I haven't a clue but it more or less corresponds to 'Inc."' "Let's just stick to 'Inc.' then." "At least with a name like that," I said, "a judge wouldn't have any problem with who owns what." "It didn't work in America, why should it work anywhere else?"
346
CRIMES OF PATENT
"What do you mean?" "Well, you called your American company Collapsible Bottle of America. It didn't stop your partners from attacking your international market." "I see your point." "Touzani BV is okay," Kamal conceded. "Just don't expect too much from a name, that's all. Now, about promotion." "Well," I said. "What I suggest is bringing out a book introducing the inventor and summarizing his achievements. Something that could be marketed to the general public and used as a corporate manual." "Not a bad idea," said Kamal. "It might even help your legal dispute in America. I seriously think you ought to document what you've done to date before Dennis Lawrence claims he did it all. Yes, I like it." Kamal wasn't one to let the grass grow under his feet. Two days later he had assembled a team consisting of an artist, a photographer, a writer and a printer. The artist was Brian Wood an Englishman, the photographer was Edgardo Clienti - an Italian, the writer was Lanux a Frenchman and the printer was Marcel Brunel . a Moroccan. If a camel can be defined as a horse designed by a committee then God alone knew what our book would look like when the United Nations had got to work with it. It was to be a full-color deluxe edition of at least one hundred pages and, as we sat around in my apartment discussing the project one Saturday afternoon, it seemed like an impossible mission. It had always been one of my fantasies to write up my experiences as a successful entrepreneur and now that too was becoming a reality. My degree of success was open to debate, to put it mildly, but at least the technology was continuing its ascent. Although, in exile, I was successfully breathing new life into my inventions, my American business was rapidly dying. It was not long after the granting of the temporary restraining order that my partners obviously began to wake up to the fact that Dennis Lawrence had been a little more than economical with the truth - that he had, in fact, been lying from beginning to end. Apparently they now decided it was high time to cut their losses and withdraw from the collapsible container business with all possible haste. To this end - and only a few weeks after I had left the States they began to negotiate selling their shares to Dennis Lawrence and his cronies.
347
PRIVATE SCREENING
Now whether they were simply anxious to get rid of their shares as quickly as possible and without making a financial loss or whether they realized themselves that the American market had been utterly destroyed and that they were lucky to get out of it relatively unscathed, I have no idea. What I do know is that my partners agreed to sell their shares to Dennis Lawrence for a little over a quarter of a million dollars - in other words, for exactly the same amount they had bought them for. What was more, Dennis would be allowed to pay for them over a period of several years. When I told him this news, Kamal was well and truly flabbergasted. "Do you mean to tell me that after all that bull they fed to the judge about trying to save you from yourself and how the good of the company must come first, they're now trying to sneak out the back door?" he yelled. "That's about the size of it," I replied. "Do you realize that they're prepared to sell their share in CBA for the same amount of money we're now spending on molds?" " quarter of a million," said Kamal, nodding his head. "That is A definitely what you call adding insult to injury." "What do you think about trying to buy them out?" I suggested. "You mean outbid Dennis Lawrence?" "Right. It shouldn't be a problem: the guy's got no money if he had any he wouldn't be paying in installments. As for my partners I'm sure they'd prefer being paid now to later." "No doubt you're right," said Kamal. "The trouble is that it just wouldn't be worth it. If I offered your partners cash in hand they'd probably settle for a lot less than two hundred and fifty grand and within a couple of weeks we'd own CBA outright. Great. Now what'd we do? They've damaged your American operation beyond repair, Bill. If they hadn't, they wouldn't be getting out of it." "And you don't think we could salvage anything?" "Listen, Bill. As far as your American customers your former American customers are concerned, you are the invention and the invention is you. Maybe we could salvage something in the end but it would take far more money to re-establish the business than we'd ever get out of it."
348
18 . FERGUSON
In Holland once more, Fenny and I headed straight from Schiphol airport to her parents' house in Amstelveen. Fenny had kept them informed about the events of recent months and they greeted us cheerfully - too cheerfully, in fact: it was easy to see that they were trying to keep our spirits up. We didn't stay there very long. I picked up my car and we drove straight to The Hague where I was sure there would be a mass of correspondence from my attorneys, and others. Sure enough, there was a huge pile of letters and bills awaiting me. The fax machine had spewed an entire roll onto the floor most of it from Steve Clair and John McKinley. The greater part of this material took the form of copies of the various correspondence they'd had with my partners' lawyers but in between were strongly worded letters asking for an additional and long-awaited ten thousand dollars. If I failed to pay them, Clair and McKinley would withdraw from the case. I was in desperate financial straits. The only member of my family who knew about my legal wrangles was my brother Wadi and I had been understandably reluctant to ask Kamal for money to pay my lawyers' fees. I was already indebted to him for his generosity and his trust. After all, he had every reason to be wary of involving himself with me. Although he didn't believe that I had done anything to justify the antagonism of my partners, I wouldn't have blamed him if he'd decided to invest his money elsewhere. Wadi, although totally supportive in other ways, had no money and even then he had already helped me out by putting me in touch with the Christensen brothers. Among the other faxes and most alarming of all were reminders from Jeims Deimen that unless I paid my bills or signed sixty percent equity in all my patents over to him, these patents would surely be abandoned permanently. Kamal had an exclusive license for North Africa. This represented a population of some sixty million people: a market that would, in itself, justify the millions of dollars that he was investing in his factory.
349
PRIVATE SCREENING
Although I was to own forty percent of the new company, it would be several years before I'd see any profits since the first dividends would go to paying off the initial investment. In Europe, however, I would have full control of any income generated by the sale of Kamal's products and a reasonable proportion of this would remain for me to live on and to pay patent and legal expenses. It seemed absurd that the expenses claimed by Jeims Deimen were to cover the fifty or so countries abandoned by Max Hollis and the SCAT partners, almost all of which could be described as 'third world' and thus relatively unprofitable, while I was far more concerned with the status of my European patents that might follow the same fate.
I hadn't been back in The Hague for more than a few days when I got a call from Nils' brother Sven requesting a meeting at the end of that week. Although I knew how anxious Steve Clair and John McKinley were to know the fate of the additional money I had promised to send, I decided to wait until after my meeting with the Christensens before calling them. I was hoping that this, and the personal friendship that the Christensens enjoyed with my brother, would persuade the Norwegians to commit themselves to my business in spite of the legal mess surrounding it. This didn't seem such a tough prospect: after all, only my U.S. business had been blocked and their interest lay in Europe. And if we concluded a deal, they just might help me out with my patent fees and my legal expenses. Sven Christensen, in his forties, was the younger of the brothers. and Anxious to negotiate a deal, he came down with his wife Jeff, his American marketing consultant. I booked them into a comfortable hotel in The Hague hoping I wouldn't get landed with the bill and we held our meeting the afternoon of their arrival. Thanks to my brother, Sven and Jeff already had several of my earlier brochures in their possession. I showed them copies of the CBA partnership agreements, the licensing agreement and the restraining order all for the sole purpose of assuring them that the international market had never been licensed to CBA, had not been involved in the dispute and that the European market, in particular, was still intact and ripe for large-scale exploitation. He was at first curious and then Ironically,Jeff was from San increasingly angry about the sort of legal chicanery of which I had been a victim.
350
CRIMES OF PATENT
"It's so typical of the United States," he said, at last. "It lays all these big claims to being the land of opportunity and as soon as some poor sucker gets his head down and pushes for success there are fifty others sneaking off to their lawyers to see how they can get a piece of the action. As long as you can afford the legal fees, you can do just about anything. You know what Voltaire said? 'God is on the side of the big battalions.' Well, in the States he's on the side of the big bucks." "Which brings me to my present crisis," I replied. "My lawyer's telling me that the meter's running out. I desperately need help to keep him on the case. I'd very much appreciate it if you could lend me ten thousand dollars." I had felt leery about asking. Usually I'm not the sort of guy who would ask a stranger for a dime, let alone ten thousand bucks but Sven and Jeff seemed pretty well committed to my business and it's wonderful how you can overcome your embarrassment when the only alternative is ruin. "Look, Bill," said Sven. "Your brother's a nice guy and a good friend. You can be sure that we'll talk about business soon. 1'11 be in have my lawyers in Luxemburg arrange to touch. In the meantime, pay your legal fees." On the principle of 'nothing ventured nothing gained', I had thought that asking for money was worth a shot but frankly I'd expected a polite refusal or at least a lot of questions on their part and assurances on mine before a grudging acquiesence was forthcoming. I had certainly not expected an immediate offer or that depth of sympathy and understanding. While everyone in America seemed ready to take advantage of the slightest opportunity of exploiting the situation, elsewhere I kept running into people who not only took me at my word and were prepared to conclude an agreement on a handshake but also respected me as the inventor of a successful product and were ready to offer me all reasonable assistance. On the other hand, when I gave myself time to reflect, I had to admit that a good many of my American deals had also been sealed with a handshake and I had never had cause to regret it. Perhaps the real difference lay in the way one was treated as an individual. In America, the sort of person you were seemed considerably less important than the business opportunity you represented. You could be the but as long as you were offering a biggest crook since solid deal, people would be prepared to do business with you - which was certainly the way individuals such as Dennis Lawrence were still able to function. In Europe, however, your personal integrity was every
351
PRIVATE SCREENING
bit as important as your profitability. The Europeans were certainly ready to take your word as a gentleman and a fellow capitalist but if you later proved to be anything less than honest and straight-dealing you'd better consider leaving the country very quickly: no reputable person would do business with you if your honesty was open to question. While the Christensens had shown themselves so ready to have ten thousand dollars paid to my attorney in order to help the brother of a friend, I was disappointed at their request to postpone business negotiations to a later date. They simply asked me to give them xeroxed copies of the documents in my possession so that they could give them to their lawyers. Although this was not the last time we were to meet, the possibility of our doing business together rapidly receded. It established a pattern which continues to this day: although my European contacts were quite prepared to accept my version of events, the mere fact that a restraining order had been made against me, even though it was not supposed to affect my international operations, was enough to place a huge question-mark over my credibility. Although, personally speaking, they might have had no real doubts about my integrity, they balked at the idea of having to explain my reputation to their superiors or their shareholders. The case of Van Leer was typical of this sort of situation. Van Leer is one of the world leaders in plastic packaging and a major manufacturer of plastic containers. Conveniently, their headquarters was directly across the street from Fenny's parents' house. One day I called their director of packaging to check on the progress of the testing they were conducting on my bottles only to have him refer me immediately to their legal department. I decided to pursue the matter further to explore exactly the sort of damage that Dennis Lawrence had and I requested a meeting with their done to my international in-house lawyer. I put the phone down and Fenny and I strolled across the street to meet Mr Rossi who, as it turned out, was a patent attorney. "Mr Touzani," he began, opening a thick file relating to the collapsible bottle on top of which lay a faxed copy of Dennis' restraining order, "I hope you appreciate that under the circumstances we can't be involved with this project any longer." I stared at him blankly. I knew that protests were useless. "I'm sorry to have to tell you that our decision is irrevocable. We've lived without your collapsible bottle for hundreds of years - we can go on for a few years longer."
352
CRIMES OF PATENT
When we left his office, I had tears in my eyes and I could hear his last words "a few years longer" resonating in the back of my mind. He had meant "until your patent expires". He was in no hurry. What did another fifteen years matter if they could avoid dirtying their name in legal disputes?
I called John McKinley in to explain to him the kind of damage that Dennis Lawrence was doing me internationally, in spite of the fact that the restraining order specifically forbade him from interfering in my foreign business. "It seems to me," he said, "that your partners are prepared to go to any lengths t o destroy all sources of income you can draw upon. I'm afraid Dennis Lawrence will stop at nothing to scare off your potential customers. I myself am having a hard time getting their lawyers to cooperate with me." "John," I replied, "I must have the international files that were stolen from my house. I need to save my European patents and I don't even know the European patent firm that handles them. Jeims Deimen refuses to disclose its name to me. If I lose my European patents, there's no purpose in my being here." "I'll see what I can do," saidJohn. "I've already subpoenaed all CBA and international documents from their lawyers but I'm afraid we won't receive them in time to do you any good." I was desperate. I kept digging into the back of my brain to find conversations where Jeims might have referred to his European attorneys. I had heard him talk about his Swiss associates, Dutch associates and Cypriot associates through which many of his Middle-Eastern countries were filed. I decided that the Dutch associate was probably the most logical one to look for first after all, I was living in the country. Of course the quickest way would have been to have contacted any patent attorney in town, paid him a thousand dollars, have him pull a copy of my European patents as filed with the European patent office and see which attorney was listed as representing them. Well, I didn't have a thousand dollars and what if the name listed as my agent was Jeims Deimen? That would bring me right back to square one. I decided that the safest way was to consult the yellow pages and the information operators. I disconnected the fax line and connected another telephone in my apartment. Fenny and I then spent several days calling every patent firm in Holland until finally I got through to Octrooibureau Vriesendorp Gaade.
353
PRIVATE SCREENING
"Miss?" I said to their receptionist. "I know you have several patent attorneys in your firm, but is there a way of you finding out if a Mr Touzani is one of your clients?" "Yes," she replied. connect you to our accounts department." I'd heard this kind of response a hundred times before. I didn't find it surprising that the only time when all inventors were on an equal footing was when it came to billing. "Mr William Touzani?"asked the guy in the accounts department. "Yes, he's listed here." "Could you give me the name of the attorney who represents him?" "Certainly. It's Mr Ferguson." I asked to speak to him. "Mr Touzani!" said Mr Ferguson, as if he knew me well. "What can I do for you?" "I'm the inventor of some collapsible bottles and I believe you're handling my patent applications." "Yes, Mr Touzani. I know who you are. We've been handling your work for the last five years." The next day, Fenny and I went to meet him. We were led to a conference room where three huge files, each representing a patent, were lying on the table. Mr Ferguson turned out to be in his mid-thirties. He had a pleasant face. He gave me the rundown on each of the patents and the bottom line was: "As far as I see it all three of your patents have been abandoned. We have not received any payments on them in several months and in less than thirty days they will be permanently lost. It seems to us that your attorney, Mr Deimen, is no longer willing to follow through with them." "How much money is owing?" I asked. He spent a few minutes checking his debit notes. "About fifteen thousand dollars." I jumped out of my seat. "Fifteen thousand dollars? It only takes two to three thousand dollars to file a patent. You didn't even write them up. All you needed to do was file them. How could that be?" "Well, Mr Touzani, in Europe the process is much more lengthy than in the States and the patent-search they perform here is far more exhaustive. I can tell you that as a result of the search all three of your patents have been declared unpatentable at their first examination, that is. Not only will you have to pay all of the fees we mentioned, but
354
CRIMES OF PATENT
you'll also have to sit down with us here and help us redraft them in order to overcome the objections." As I was leaving, Mr Ferguson suggested I formally terminated the services of Jeims Deimen. This would allow them to represent me directly. At least then there was some hope that they would get their money. I left his office with a sense of relief that all was not lost and that it was only a matter of money that would enable me to save my patents. The objections that the patent office had raised were the same kind of objections that my own licensees in the U.S. had discovered on their own and were to be the basis for refusing to pay royalties and possible legal actions against CBA and myself. It was a comfort to think that, though it took much longer for the Europeans to approve my patents and allow me to license them, I would be able to sleep a lot easier once it was done. My first patent in the United States Collapsible Bottle took only four months to be allowed by the U.S. patent office. In Europe the same patent had already taken five years. All eighteen claims were either rejected or needed to be redrafted and my invention was now entitled Process of Manufacturing a Collapsible Bottle. I was no longer the inventor of an object but of a process. In America, not only was my patent accepted as is, without a single modification, but when I asked for a reissue of the same patent within the two year grace period to which I was entitled, they accepted five additional claims and the broadening of the name 'bottle' to include all containers. This process, however, was not meant to add any new matter to the original patent: if you believe that a trash-can is nothing more than a funny-looking bottle. I had planned to provide the U.S. patent office with the kind of information that the Europeans were able to dig out and ask for a reexamination of my patents in order to give some legitimacy and some honesty to our licensing. Now, however, with the restraining order in force, Dennis Lawrence, who was equally familiar with the situation, would prefer sticking to the status quo and continuing to defraud our customers by providing them with protection that could not be protected itself.
I had no idea where I would find the money. I could have gone to my family but my parents would have thought it very strange they were, as yet, unaware of the collapse of my business and I certainly intended it keep it that way if at all possible. My father, moreover, had
355
PRIVATE SCREENING
paid for my European patents five years earlier. He would certainly be very disappointed if I lost the European market and more disappointed again if did so without asking him for help. I decided, instead, to talk to Kamal about it: he had everything to gain by protecting the European territory from uncontrolled competition should the patent be lost. He had already accepted to pay for the filing of additional inventions and he was shocked to learn that the old ones were in jeopardy. "How much money do you need, Bill?" he asked. "I need fifteen thousand dollars to save three patents already filed and I need money to file three additional patents related to the products we're developing in Morocco. Don't forget that if these are put out for sale it would disqualify any further patent protection we might want to have." Kamal did send me the money I needed and a whole lot more. Over the following weeks I received a total of a hundred thousand dollars wired to me from his Paris office. They were loans which were made to me personally and out of which Mr Ferguson and John McKinley were to be paid but I had the money transferred directly to my account instead of the lawyers'. I certainly was not going to commit the same mistake I had made with CBA: to have money transferred directly to cover my patents only to have him say later that if he had saved them, he therefore owned them. The loan that had been made by the Christensens was the first of several deposits made by friends and business relations. Though these were all nominally loans, nobody ever had any illusions about recovering the money. Although both Steve Clair and John McKinley were to show extreme forbearance, the demands for extra injections of cash multiplied. For them, however, Schwemley et versus Touzani was not a mere meal-ticket but a cause for which they had committed themselves to fight in the way that medieval knights swore to defend justice against wrongdoing. They worked for a pittance, confident in the belief that we would win our case. Our opponents, by contrast, seemed to have unlimited funds. Far more than anything they could have said, this generosity of friends and collaborators was concrete evidence of their faith in me and their wish to see justice done. This kind of trust was just the sort of medicine I needed to put Dennis Lawrence and the doctors to one side. I was not going to waste my time looking for companies with a view to licensing my patents for one technology or another. In fact I had no intention of relying on any of the patents. They had proven to be more than an unreliable
356
CRIMES OF PATENT
source of exclusivity and a considerable financial drain. They were clearly designed to satisfy the vanity of large corporations. I now decided to behave like a good old-fashioned capitalist in a competitive world and market a good-quality, affordable product without making any exaggerated claims that I'd invented a better mousetrap. Hopefully I would have a head start on my competitors. If nothing else, this new strategy should effectively remove me from Dennis Lawrence's line of fire. No longer would I have to listen to him saying 'It's okay for Bill to have the patents but we own the technology.' It had become his favorite statement - aimed at confusing anyone involved in the business and most particularly their lawyers.
357
19 . TOUZANI INC.
With Fenny at my side, I returned to Casablanca from Holland knowing that my stay in Morocco was going to be extremely hectic this time. I had certainly never installed a factory before. The factory covered over a hundred thousand square feet. Installing it was going to involve setting up a dozen blow-molding machines for the production of containers, injection-molding machines for closures and several other ancillary machines for the handling of raw or recycled materials. In addition, we would have to install the huge chilling equipment needed to cool the molds and the air-compressors required to force the plastic into them, together with a highly-elaborate system of distribution plumbing above and below the ground. This was indeed going to be a new experience. I took a lot of comfort from the knowledge that van den was going to arrive in Morocco in a few weeks' time. He had already visited me in Holland from where we had done the rounds at a trade fair in Germany to buy the best possible equipment at the most reasonable prices. His expert help had been invaluable. I also knew that it would be a great comfort for him to find me awaiting him in Casablanca: while spoke Spanish fluently, and, of course, English, most of our help in Morocco would be Arabic or French-speaking. This was the only thing that caused any concern and I had promised to stay with him as long as I could to ease him through his communication problems. My brother Wadi met Fenny and I at the airport and took us back to the apartment in the Residence Al Manar. From there, Wadi and I proceeded alone to our plant in the industrial area of Casablanca where the AMBM company had set out the equipment on the factory floor in the positions indicated in Al's blueprints. There were a few damaged units most notably the consoles which Kamal's employees had already inspected and reported to the
358
CRIMES OF PATENT
insurers. This was of minor importance, however, and apart from that everything seemed well in hand. could arrive as scheduled. On the inside, our seventeenth floor penthouse looked much as it had done when we'd left it in the summer. Outside, however, conditions were very different. The swimming pool had turned the color of pea soup and was now occupied by an inanimate and immobile swimteam of parasols and chairs. The winter of 1989-1990 was a hard one in Morocco with heavy rain and winds that threatened to blow you away as soon as you stepped out the door. It was exactly the same weather system that had affected us back in Holland, with the difference that there the temperature had been in single figures and here it was in the late teens. Yet even if the weather had been hot and sunny, we'd have had little opportunity to enjoy it: there was far too much work ahead of us for that. Lanux the writer who was helping me with my book came to see me that first evening to give me the final draft of the text. We looked over some of the latest changes I had suggested and, in my opinion, we were ready to go to press. The next day I handed Abdul, the printer, over a hundred color slides and photographs for him to make into color-separation film, as well as more than a hundred pages of printed material. Abdul was aware of our tight deadline. He knew about my legal dispute in America and he knew that the book was urgently needed to help me support my case. As far as other potential uses of the book were concerned - notably the general readership and its use for promotion purposes - there was no particular hurry. I spent several days working with Abdul, his wife Rita and Edgardo "Eddie" Clienti, the photographer, on the general layout. Both Abdul and Rita, who was a layout artist, had graduated from the Ecole des Beaux Arts in Paris. Together with Gerard Lanux, Eddie and Brian Wood, they formed the nucleus of a highly professional team. I had purchased several books in Holland and brought them with me as examples of the sort of style I was after a point of departure from which we could work. Some of them had cost me over a hundred dollars each and it was rather a pity that Fenny was the only one who could read them without the aid of an English-Dutch or French-Dutch or Italian-Dutch or Arabic-Dutch dictionary and even then she would have had to have been inordinately interested in medieval Japanese art or Ming Dynasty ceramics, which, unfortunately, she was not.
359
PRIVATE SCREENING
Our little team was faced with an enormous challenge. Usually these professionals had a pretty clear idea via the writer or the publisher - of the readership for which a book was intended. My book, on the other hand, was to be expensive-looking, saleable to the general public, impressive to potential licensees and customers as a corporate manual and, last but not least, was intended to put my case in front of an American judge. It took us an entire week merely to finalize the kind of format we'd adopt and we must have spent upwards of fifty hours debating it. Once the format had been agreed, Eddie could finally take his color pictures and make the color separations to the exact dimensions. Abdul referred us to a company that did typesetting. Although Abdul had agreed to spend that week working exclusively for me, the owner of Edit 2000 - the typesetting company - was rather less enthusiastic: he was already overbooked and seriously overworked. All the same, he was impressed with the concept and the pictures I showed him and felt that he wanted to be a part of the project. "Mr Zadi," I said. "If you have a spare computer, my girlfriend here can type in the information for you. Then all we'll have to do is select the type-face and format the text." "As a matter of fact I do have a computer at home," said Mr Zadi. "Strictly speaking, it's my wife's. As long as your girlfriend doesn't mind having a baby around, she's welcome to use it. Our baby certainly makes less noise than a typesetting shop and it'll be more private there." Fenny spent the week working with Marie-Claire, Mr wife. They struck up a friendship almost immediately and were soon sharing the duties of typing and bringing up baby. It was amazing that starting from only a prepared text and photographs, we were ready to go to the printer in less than two weeks. If I had put the material in the hands of a publisher it would certainly have taken several months. Speed had been essential however: the arbitration was provisionally scheduled to take place in only a few weeks' time and the book would have to be ready by then. Had that not been the case, I very much doubt whether anyone would have been prepared to have worked under so much pressure.
I organized a meeting in my apartment of everyone concerned in the project to show them the final package: the text, the proofs of the color-separationsand the illustrations.
360
CRIMES OF PATENT
Kamal was overwhelmed. He thought it the best book of that type that he had ever seen and was astounded that we had pulled it off in such a short time. He sat reading the material for a good hour as the rest of us expressed mutual satisfaction in a job well done. It was only when he got to page ninety that he raised his eyebrows. "You can't do this," he said, standing up and indicating the page with his finger. "Can't do what?" I asked. "Here you're about a business relation from Israel and you put my company on the page facing it. You must be crazy. Do you want to get us I had known there was going to be some concern regarding the chapter about Yehuda Olshansky and his research program in Israel but I'd felt confident that I could defend my position if need be. "You do know," continued Kamal, "that any company doing business with Israel is automatically blacklisted by all Arab countries, don't you? And here am I investing millions of dollars right here in this town! You may not have to live here, Bill, but my children and I certainly do!" In common with most of its neighbours in what is generally considered to be the Arab world, Morocco has no peace-treaty or diplomatic ties with the state of Israel. In fact, the only exception to this rule is Egypt. However, this puts Morocco in a unique and somewhat difficult position: its Jewish population has, for centuries, been very large at some points it has even outnumbered the Arab population. This fact is rather less surprising when you consider that seventy-five percent of Moroccans are actually Berbers. Most of these Sephardic Jews were originally refugees from Spain who escaped southwards to avoid persecution by the Inquisition, mostly around the year 1492 the same year in which Columbus discovered America and were put under the direct protection of the kings of Morocco. Historically, the kings of Morocco have always been very powerful. At the height of their influence, they controlled most of Spain and south-western France and North Africa as far east as Egypt. Even during the decline of their power, in the nineteenth century, they succeeded in halting the encroachments of the Ottoman Empire as it extended westwards. It was thanks to this relative stability that Moroccan Judaism was able to survive and flourish without having recourse to the ghetto that was forced upon it in so many other countries. A a s result, many Jewish families even went so far as to convert to Islam.
361
PRIVATE SCREENING
Today one of the most prominent Moroccan families is that of the Cohens one branch of which is Jewish and the other Muslim. Both branches are descended from the same Jewish roots. Kamal's family, my family and a great many other well-known families still recognize their Jewish backgrounds and accept to share a common destiny. "Listen, Kamal," I said. "This book is intended to be a true account of one man's struggle to make a dream come true. Only a few people so few that I could count them on my fingers were willing to extend a helping hand and, like it or not, one of them was Yehuda Olshansky. We're all in the same boat, Kamal. We'll sink or swim together." "Sink, I imagine," said Kamal, morosely. "There's even more to it than that," I continued, "I believe Yehuda Olshansky will single-handedly run away with several new innovations based on my patents. You already know about the jerrycan with the flexible spout. Do you realize just how many different applications it could be used for? The ramifications of that outside Israel could be extremely lucrative for us and I want him mentioned. I won't compromise on this." "All right, Bill," replied Kamal, resignedly. "We'll see what happens. It's your funeral - I just hope it isn't mine too." "For the life of me, I can't really see how anybody could reasonably object to what I'm doing," I said. "It's not as if I'm actually making any profit out of this operation. As it says in the book, all my Israeli royalties are going to Interns for Peace - a non-profit-making organization for promoting friendship between Jewish and Arab children. it-making, Kamal!" "And headed by a rabbi who lives in New York!" he retorted. "I don't think that'll really wash with the Palestinians, do you? Look, Bill. You might not be able to see how anybody could reasonably object but just remember that not everybody is reasonable, huh?" We all agreed, in spite of the reservations that Kamal had expressed, that the book was finally ready to go to print. The only area that had not been adequately dealt with concerned the new products had sent out their molds developed in Casablanca. Polito and for testing at various facilities around Casablanca and had already built up a product-inventory at their office. In order to bring the book completely up to date, I got hold of some of these test samples and rushed them to the shooting-table where Eddie took some additional photographs. Marcel Brunel was to be our printer and I had arranged a timetable with him several weeks in advance. At the time, I'd thought that it
362
CRIMES OF PATENT
would be impossible to respect and even now I couldn't believe that the finished work was lying on his desk. He was not one of the largest printshops in Casablanca but he was reputed for his quality work. When he saw the material that I provided him with he was fascinated and at once saw its usefulness as a showcase. Despite his condemnation of the Tower of Sin, my father had finally accepted an invitation to dinner at our new apartment. Frankly, I think he'd have taken a return ticket to hell if it meant seeing his son and, what was more, the dinner was to be prepared by his favorite cook my mother. One dinner swiftly became two dinners and it wasn't long before he was turning up every day. Our discussions were always about normal, mundane things - politics, the bad weather we were having, how the book was progressing. On one particular evening, however, my mother introduced a new and infinitely more disturbing topic and she did so as if it had been no more important than the price of bread. "I had a very strange call this afternoon," she said. "Some lunatic screaming over the phone. He shouted 'Jew! I'll get you!' and then he hung up. Most extraordinary!" "There are a lot of strange people out there," declared my father. Everyone seemed to be taking it very casually but it made me think twice. I asked my mother to repeat exactly what the caller had said and how he had said it. She was surprised that I took such an interest in this and she suddenly became concerned. "Is there something we should know, Bill?" she asked. "Do you know what this could be about?" I told them about the chapter in my book referring to Yehuda Olshansky and Israel. "Kamal warned me about this," I said. "But I didn't think this sort of thing would happen at all, much less start so soon: the book hasn't even been published yet. If it has anything to do with the book, this can only have come about through somebody who's involved in making it." "Well," sighed my father, "I could have warned you about that myself. At least you're living in this building nobody comes in without a formal check." A day or two later there was a lull in the bad weather. Fenny and I decided to take advantage of it and walk down the main boulevard to the downtown shopping district. I liked walking in the streets of
363
PRIVATE SCREENING
Casablanca or anywhere else for that matter. Lately it had become my only form of exercise. It was as we were crossing from one busy street to the next through a quiet, residential thoroughfare that I happened to notice a white geot station-wagon approaching us: I don't think I'd have paid it any attention at all had it not been the only car in the street. As it drew closer, I heard the engine change note as the vehicle accelerated towards us. I watched, mesmerized, as it struck the curb, leapt it and headed directly at us. It was no more than a few yards from us when I suddenly unfroze and pushed Fenny against the wall. The car veered away and, as it passed, its fender hit me a glancing blow on the hip. For a brief second I seemed to sit on the hood of the car and was then thrown forwards as the driver swerved back into the street and sped off towards the intersection. There was no red light at the intersection but there were many pedestrians crossing and the next street was full of cars and bicycles. The pedestrians scattered as the vehicle screamed towards them but the driver was still forced to slow up in order to find a break in the traffic. I began to sprint up the street towards him. I saw him turn his head and look at me. Reaching the car, I made a lunge at the passenger-side door, wrenched it open and grabbed at the driver's neck. He stamped his foot on the gas-pedal and the car lurched forward again. I released my hold on the door handle and the door slammed shut, shattering the glass along that side. Before I could do anything else, he had swung into the traffic and Fenny and I watched, dazed and shaken, as he disappeared from view. We had lost all further interest in walking or shopping. Fenny was very upset and I was feeling far from fine myself. We headed straight back to our apartment and I immediately called Kamal to tell him what had happened. "I told you so," he replied. "If it's what I suspect it is, I'd like you to call Commissioner Manjra. He's the head of the secret service and an acquaintance of mine. I'd like you to show him a copy of the book and discuss the situation with him. In the meantime, I'm going to buy you a new car and send it to you. I don't want you to walk any more."
I called Commissioner Manjra and arranged a meeting for a few days later. I took two proof-copies of the book with me. His office was located somewhere at the central police-station in Rabat but exactly where was more difficult to ascertain: there was certainly no mention of it in the list of departments inside the main
364
CRIMES OF PATENT
entrance. The thought occurred to me that perhaps the secret service was so very secret that nobody knew where it was but, as it turned out, the first cop I asked gave me the information I was after. His directions, however, were very complicated and were accompanied by extremely suspicious looks. I arrived at what I supposed was my final destination only to find n o trace of Commissioner Manjra's office. There was nothing for it but to ask again. "You're in the wrong part of the building," said the second cop. "You need the east wing. Go back the way you came, take the third stairs on the left, go up two floors Twenty minutes and another three cops later I finally asked a man in plain clothes. He too looked me up and down with great suspicion. "Commissioner Manjra?" he said. "Follow me." He led me straight to Manjra's secretary but then remained a few feet behind me while I explained to her that I had an appointment. He took his leave only when the secretary confirmed it. Manjra was a red-haired man in his forties and Commissioner his office was a total mess: it looked more like it was occupied by Philip than the head of national security. He had already heard of a collapsible bottle, invented by a native Moroccan who had successfully exploited it in the United States. This was not so much a tribute to the efficiency of the secret service as it was to Commissioner Manjra's ability to read a newspaper - the story had been front-page news. The Commissioner read the section of my book referring to Israel and then turned to me. "I would be very much surprised," he said, "if there were any radical anti-Jewish groups here who express their views through violence of this sort. Not in Morocco. As far as censoring this book is concerned, I'd like to keep these two copies and give them to the correct agencies for evaluation." I was now as concerned about whether publication of my book would be actually allowed as I had been about my own safety. I had Manjra's office with one problem and it entered Commissioner looked as if I was leaving it with two. Manjra. Maybe I thought I don't know what I had expected of he'd have said something like "I know exactly who's behind this just leave it to me." In fact he seemed to be suggesting that the hit-and-run attack had been motiveless and entirely unconnected with my book. Before showing me to the door, however, the Commissioner handed me some cards bearing his name and 'business' address.
365
PRIVATE SCREENING
"If you have any further problems and have to use the police in any way, just show them one of these cards and tell them you know me. I think you'll find it makes a difference." I was certain it would: I had heard of Commissioner Manjra before Kamal had told me about him and I was sure that the mere mention of his name would give any police officer a nasty shake. However, just as I was on the point of leaving his office, it was me that was shaken. I noticed a familiar object lying on the desk next to his personal computer: it was a third proof-copy of my book. I stared at it in surprise for a few seconds and then transferred my gaze to jra. He gave the merest hint of a smile. "Good day, Mr Touzani," he said. I returned home to find a brand new Peugeot 309 awaiting me. I decided to use it that evening to take Fenny to the Hyatt Hotel where Americain and watch CNN on TV. we could relax in the After leaving the Hyatt, we walked across the street to look at some craft stores - Fenny wanted to buy some souvenirs to take home. We were strolling up and down, looking in the shop-windows, when I became aware of a dark figure behind me. I didn't pay too much attention at first even when he started speaking in a loud voice but suddenly Fenny pulled me closer. "Isn't that guy talking to you?" she said. "I don't know," I replied. "Is he?" He was. In fact he was doing more than talking: he was shouting at me in Arabic and what he was shouting did not make particularly nice listening. At first I was confused. How did this guy know I was Moroccan anyway? I don't look particularlyMoroccan and even less so standing outside the Hyatt Hotel with a blonde on my arm. If his intention was to hustle tourists, why wasn't he speaking in French or English? Everyone in the world knows at least one English insult. The man began to draw closer and changed his shouting from insulting to downright obscene. As we edged away from him he reached out and made a grab for Fenny's backside. Immediately I seized him by the neck. "You Jewish he screamed in Arabic. get you, you filthy Jewish bastard!" "Not if I get you first," I answered and dragged him off, struggling, to the end of the street where I'd seen a policeman. "I want this man put under arrest," I said, taking one of Commission Manjra's cards and showing it to the cop. The effect was electric.
366
CRIMES OF PATENT
"Where's your I.D.?" he bawled at the man. The guy rummaged in his pocket and brought out some papers. The cop took them and began to scrutinize them thoroughly. From where I was standing I couldn't get a good look at them but they certainly weren't normal identification papers; they bore the red and green diagonal stripes of a government employee. "Are you drunk?" the policeman asked him. He didn't look drunk and he didn't really sound drunk. I began to suspect that the police officer was trying to cover for him. "No," he replied. "I'm not drunk." The cop shot him a glance that spelled 'you idiot!' and then immediately turned back to me. "It's all right, sir," he said. radio up a car and take this guy in. If you want to file a complaint you can go to the police station." This incident shook me in two ways. Firstly I had never been involved in a fist-fight in years and that alone had left me shaken enough. Secondly, this whole affair was becoming much too serious. In fact my first reaction was to get on the next plane and head for the peace and security of Holland. But if I was shaken, Fenny was extremely distressed. This was not at all the sort of street-theater she was used to and, coming hard on the heels of our hit-and-run incident, it had convinced her that the Muslim fundamentalists or the Palestinians or the Libyans or all three were out to get us. "Where's it going to end?" she sobbed. "A bomb in our car? A bullet in the back of the head?" "Don't worry about it!" I replied, not all that convincingly. "That guy just now probably wasn't connected with the hit-and-run driver in any way. Lots of tourists get hassled, you know.'' "He called you a Jew!" said Fenny. "Well he was wrong, wasn't he?" I replied. "Besides, around here it's just a general term of abuse anyway. Maybe he wanted to sell us some drugs - I wasn't really listening to what he said at the beginning." "He didn't look like a drug-dealer." "So what does a drug-dealer look like? Tell me. Anyway, do you know what the cops do around here? They come up to tourists, sell them some hash and then bust them for possession. They're not really so interested in arresting drug-users as they are in using them as a bargaining counter to get Moroccans released from jails overseas." "That doesn't sound very fair," said Fenny.
367
PRIVATE SCREENING
"Maybe it isn't," I replied. "But nobody forces a tourist to buy drugs against his will and why should the Moroccan authorities put up with his misdemeanors when Moroccans in other countries are locked up for doing the same sort of thing?" When I got home, my mother told me that Kamal had been looking for me all day. No sooner had she said this than the phone rang. "Bill?" said Kamal. "You're going to have to come down and see me at the office. I've been getting some threatening calls. I've just instructed that all work on the book be stopped." "You can't do that!" I said. "You've already spent fifty thousand dollars on this and five thousand copies are in the process of being bound right now." "You've spent fifty thousand dollars on it, not me," replied Kamal. "I will not acknowledge it. I never want to hear about this book again." I was stunned. As I slowly lowered the receiver, I saw that my mother and father were staring at me. They'd heard and understood. "Don't worry about it," said my father. cover the other expenses. You'll have your book." The following Sunday morning, van den arrived with his entire family. He had left Los Angeles twenty-four hours earlier in order to catch the Royal Air flight from New York the previous evening. With all the luggage they brought with them they expected to stay several months, if not years we needed two cars to transport them back to town. family consisted of Al's Mexican-born wife, The van den Aurora, their daughter Anna a college student on a year's sabbatical and A.J., their four year-old boy. We took them directly to a furnished apartment on the second floor of the Residence Manara. Except for Al, they all looked exceptionally fit even after such a long trip. himself was more than fit: he wanted to go and look at his machines immediately. After all, he had chosen them himself and regarded them very much as his babies. By now, the machines looked much cleaner than when we had found them in Germany. I immediately pointed out the damaged sections to but he dismissed them as relatively insignificant. I was relieved: this seemed to vindicate the choice we had made. Kamal had sent us to an international packaging show to buy new machines and had been deeply concerned to see us return with second-hand units. What he couldn't have been expected to know was that locating a sin-
368
CRIMES OF PATENT
burned-out resistor from the blueprint of one of those state-of-theart machines would have meant it down to a flat IC chip with vague identification numbers that only the manufacturer could supply. This has long been the strategy of manufacturers in an extremely competitive industry where they have to forfeit their profit margins when selling the equipment and recover it through after-sales service and maintenance. We spent the following days locating faulty components and buying replacements from the nearest electronics shop. I was very happy to be helping in a field in which 1 used to be an expert. It was the to use. first time in five years that I was putting those Although the installation of the machines and the supporting equipment was going to take several weeks, the production on my containers' closures, suction-cups and handles was already in progress. I took to the four factories involved to check the quality-control and assist their technicians. Some of the factory employees knew a few words of English that they'd learned in high-school but when we came across Ben Haj, Al's reaction was immediate. "I want this guy hired for our operation." Ben was a mechanical engineer who had graduated from the Ecole Polytechnique in Paris. He spoke fluent English and was now working as the general technical manager of Africa Plastic. "Okay, Al," I replied. "I'll tell Kamal about him. He'll get him for us - don't you worry." He did. Up to this point, my brother Wadi was the only member of my family who was aware of my legal difficulties in the United States. I was trying my best to keep it that way. My father had a heart condition and I knew that his anger over my treatment would inevitably bring on a and Americans that could possibly be furious diatribe against disastrous. It was not as if my father had any real anti-American prejudice. Far from it: one of my best friends in my pre-American days had been a Peace Corps volunteer who had coached me in swimming and had been practically adopted by my parents. My father had certainly never raised any objections to my studying at an American university, had been proud when I took out American citizenship and prouder still of his American grandson.
369
PRIVATE SCREENING
My father's mixed feelings about America arose when I came home from La Salle college for the Christmas vacation. When it was time to return, the U.S. consulate found all sorts of minor technicalities that eventually meant my missing an entire semester, the loss of a swimming scholarship and the end of my swimming career. For several weeks it looked very much as if I would not be allowed back into the country at all. Such had been my despair over this that I attempted to take my own life by swallowing two jars of Valium prescribed for my father in the grounds of the American consulate. I had been rushed to hospital where my father kept a four-day vigil until I was out of danger. It was during my period of convalescence that the American consul paid me a visit. My father addressed only two words to him. Those two words were: "You bastards!". Following this incident, my father tended to view Americans with a certain amount of mistrust and bitterness and I knew that this would erupt if ever he found out exactly what had happened with CBA. I had thought that the way in which the CBA had been handled in my book now entitled Bouteille, which could be roughly translated as 'Amazing Bottle' was so brief and vague that it would not have aroused his suspicions but I was reckoning without my father's keen intelligence and his ability to read between the lines. The showdown came one evening at dinner. "I've been re-reading your book," he said. "A bit more attentively this time. I have a question for you." He picked up his copy and turned to page ninety-two. "It says here," he continued, "that you had a dispute with your partners in CBA which resulted in your moving the center of your activities to Holland." "That's right," I murmured. "I was wondering why you were spending so much time over here," he said. "You've hardly even mentioned America to me since you got back. Isn't it about time you told me the full story?" So I did. It took me quite a while. As my tale unfolded I saw my father getting progressively angrier. Finally, as I was running out of steam, he exploded. "I warned you!" he shouted. "I warned you! 'Don't start your business in America,' I said. 'I know what can happen there.' Everyone knows what can happen there! Why on earth didn't you start your company here just like you're doing now? Or Canada? My God, you could have gone to France or Switzerland at least you spoke the language there. I even said I'd back you myself! But, oh no, you had to do
370
CRIMES OF PATENT
it on your own! You had to prove something to me! Now look what's happened! You look tired and ill and frankly I'm not surprised!" His tirade didn't end there: it continued unabated for quite some time and re-erupted throughout the remainder of the evening. The following morning my father got up early, as usual, and made himself a cup of coffee. He put the cup on a tray and carried it through terrace. Suddenly there was a loud crash. to the Our maid was first on the scene. My father was sprawled on the floor, racked with pain. Shortly after I reached him, he stopped breathing. Frantically I pummelled his chest and gave him the kiss of life. It worked. Within a few seconds he began to breathe again but his pulse was racing erratically. We didn't know the number of the hospital. In desperation we rang the fire department and they gave it to us. Soon afterwards there was pandemonium outside the Residence Manara as the ambulance and the fire department arrived at the same time. Even van den on the second floor, walked downstairs to see what the trouble was. that there The arrival of the fire department had suggested to must logically be a fire somewhere in the Manar but there was no sign of one that he could see. He was still looking when the paramedics rolled a stretcher out of the main entrance, closely followed by my mother, myself and Fenny. "What the hell's going on, Bill?" he asked me, as we hurried towards the ambulance. "It's my father, Al. He's had a heart-attack." took a step backwards and watched dumbly. He had not, as yet, met my father and here was the poor guy being wheeled off to hospital. Despite the objections of the paramedics, I insisted in riding in the ambulance. My mother and Fenny followed behind in our own car. I was surprised at how fast the emergency services had arrived on the scene and I wondered if they would have been just as efficient if they'd been called to one of the poorer areas of town: everybody knew that the Manar was the home of politicians, diplomats and oil-rich sheiks. The drive to the hospital was a nightmare which recalled the time I had taken that trip fifteen years earlier barely conscious of anything save the wailingof the siren and the lurching and shaking of the ambulance as it wove through the traffic.
371
PRIVATE SCREENING
B the time we reached the hospital again the same hospital to y which I had been taken my father had made a spirited recovery. It was so spirited that he started shouting to the nurses, doctors and orderlies that he didn't want to be there and that he wanted to get the hell out of the place and go home. Still angry from the night before, he was far more interested in getting even than in getting well.
372
20 . OMAR
We did not return directly to Holland from Casablanca. Instead we broke our journey in Paris where father, Omar, was expecting us at his office on the twentieth floor of the Tour Montparnasse. and I'd had certain reservations about leaving van den his family in Morocco but I knew that they were in good hands. Akima, Wadi's wife, spoke excellent English and the van den Berghes had decided to take advantage of their stay to learn French. In fact, to be honest, it was on Al's advice that 1 left Morocco in the first place. "I think it would be better for your father if you made yourself scarce for a few weeks," he'd said, and, reluctantly, I'd had to agree. Mr Laraqui's chauffeur picked us up at Orly airport and took us straight to the Tour Montparnasse where Omar himself greeted us with his customary warmth. "I don't care what anybody says, Bill," he declared. "I'm proud of you. Not only is your book, Bouteille, an excellent work in itself but I really had no idea of the full extent of what you'd accomplished. be I'm sorry that you've had so much trouble in America. I promise at your side to tell the arbitrators how dedicated you've been. It's a jungle over there I know." "You can say that again," I sighed. "I'd never have believed a country could be so much in love with litigation." Mr Laraqui smiled sympathetically. "The justice system is so crucial to American life that it's become the perfect business," he said. "It can generate huge profits for very little capital outlay. Of course I'm not saying the system doesn't work - it works perfectly as long as you follow all the rules and it certainly helps to have a lot of money. Otherwise, you might just as well forget it." The tone of this discussion was very different from our last meeting in that same office. At that time I had been an aggressive businessman, the spearhead of a burgeoning industry, and intent on getting the best possible deal. Now I was grateful for whatever deal I could get and Mr
373
PRIVATE SCREENING
Laraqui's role had switched from hard-headed captain of industry to father-figure. "The trouble with America," he continued, "is that it's always contemplating its own navel. If you have foreign habits and speak with a strange accent you might as well be from another planet as far as the majority of Americans are concerned." "How come you know so much about it?" I asked, defensively. "I have American sons, American grandchildren and several American lawyers," he replied, "and whenever I visit any of them, they speak to me as if I've just gotten off the ferry from Ellis Island. But enough of that let's talk turkey. How would you like to do your European business out of this office?" His question caught me off guard. Kamal had already offered me office space in Paris but I had never dreamed he had the Tour Montparnasse in mind. He must have been paying a fortune for those premises. If I had entertained any doubts about the strength of Mr Laraqui's commitment in the light of my legal disputes in America, this statement definitely put them to rest. Both Fenny and Dahou, Omar's lawyer, looked at me with expectation. I didn't know why Dahou was so interested in my response but I certainly had no doubts about Fenny's motives: Galeries Lafayette, one of Paris' biggest and most prestigious department stores, was located on the ground floor. "Give me some time," I replied. have to think about it." They seemed satisfied with my answer, for the being at least, Dahou got down to the details of our business proposition. and "Mr Touzani," he said, respectfully, "You're going to need a corporation to market your products here in Europe and Mr Laraqui is willing to advance you fifty thousand dollars, and much more later, in return for a one-third equity. There wouldn't be any need to license your patents: the company would merely be a vehicle for commercializing any products issuing from the factory in Casablanca. If you agree, I'd like to draft the initial legal documents. Please let me know as soon as you can." There were two other people who had appointments with Omar Laraqui that same morning. He introduced them to me in a slightly offhand way as Clair Costanzo and Serge Rogliano, French businessmen, and told me that it would not be necessary to leave. Serge and Clair wanted to acquire the French representation for one of Mr Laraqui's companies that specialized in bottled fruit and veg-
374
CRIMES OF PATENT
etable products. For his part, Omar didn't seem too worried whether they represented him or not: most of the discussions involved Serge, Clair and Dahou and Omar would interject some remark or other when he considered it necessary. He clearly didn't think either of the Frenchmen heavyweight enough to merit serious attention and he certainly didn't allow them to distract him from his routine work. While these discussions were in progress, I occupied myself by through some glossy pamphlets that were neatly arranged on a low table away from the conference area. Most of these dealt with international meetings and conferences and get-togethers of various in all of which Mr Laraqui himself figured prominently. There were pictures of him with the Rockefellers, pictures with Adnan Kashoggi, pictures with the King of Morocco, pictures of him with just about any jet-setting industrialist you might care to mention. Behind me, Serge and Clair didn't seem to making too much progress. In a way they reminded me of when he had first approached me with a view to getting a license. They had that see what I can do' which didn't same air of 'give me a crack at it and seem to cut much ice with either Mr Laraqui or his lawyer. Suddenly Omar stood up, crossed to a cupboard and pulled out two of my collapsible bottles. "What do you think of these?" he asked the Frenchmen. He removed the cap from one and expanded it. Serge and Clair watched with fascination. "Ingenious, don't you think?" said Mr Laraqui. "And here, gentlemen, is the inventor." He gestured towards where I was sitting. Serge and Clair turned round and nodded and smiled politely. Immediately I got the impression that they'd much rather have been talking to me than to Dahou and Mr Laraqui. Perhaps even Omar thought that too and was relying on this as a way of getting rid of them. Finally the meeting broke up and Mr Laraqui, Fenny and I left together. "Where are you staying?"asked our host as we took the elevator. "We're booked into a hotel not too far from here," I replied. "There's no need for that," said Mr Laraqui. "I have an apartment you can stay in. I think you'll be much more comfortable there." He phoned his secretary from the lobby and told her to order up a car for us. Within a matter of minutes we were sitting in the back of a chauffeured limousine heading towards the seventh arrondissement.
375
PRIVATE SCREENING
I had expected a further meeting with Mr Laraqui the following day but when the car arrived to take us to the Tour Montparnasse the chauffeur informed me that he had been told to take Fenny and I to the de Justice instead. The de Justice is the French equivalent of the American superior court and at once I felt a certain amount of apprehension. I had had enough of courts lately to last me a lifetime and I was in no hurry to enter that stuffy, bureaucratic atmosphere again. Back in the States, at least my company had got off the ground long before court appearances had become necessary: in Europe it hadn't even started. de Justice we were ushered into an ornate, At the ceilinged room dominated by a huge polished table. Here sat a gaggle of assorted lawyers representing both sides and, of course, the three magistrates. Mr Laraqui, his opponents and various witnesses sat at the back. As I listened to the proceedings, it rapidly became clear what was going on there and exactly why Omar had engineered our presence. To put it simply, he had earlier brought a law-suit against a French construction company alleging breach of contract and had been awarded sixteen million francs in damages. The company concerned had understandably appealed against this ruling and it was that appeal that was being heard now. It was obviously very much a formality since, in the vast majority of cases at least, the appeal court tends to uphold the verdict of the lower court. As far as my presence there was concerned, Mr Laraqui evidently wanted to demonstrate that any attempt to interfere with our business in France would meet with stiff opposition. It might have been an effective piece of theater had it not been for the fact that I was becoming uncomfortably aware that I was on home turf just as I had been on the partner's home turf back in Stockton. If I were to have any sort of legal dispute with him in the future, it would certainly go badly for me. In the last twenty-four hours, I had already seen three of his ability to lawyers. In short, far from being impressed with Mr fend off any interference, I was tending to identify my position with that of his opponents. "Well," said Mr Laraqui, as we left the court, having just heard that his two million dollar award had been upheld. "I'm sorry that you had to sit through all of that. Have you had any further thoughts about establishing your business here in Paris?"
376
CRIMES OF PATENT
"Yes," I replied. "I don't think it's for me. You see I have a house in Holland, I have a girlfriend in Holland and frankly I don't like Paris very much." "Okay," he replied, clearly disappointed. "It's your choice, of course, but the offer still stands if you change your mind." "Thanks," I said. "But I don't think I will." I was later to find out that there were strings attached to Mr Laraqui's offer of financial backing. His lawyer had stated that I would receive a payment of fifty thousand dollars 'and much more later'. It was soon apparent that this latter phrase would only apply if I established my business in Paris where, presumably, Omar felt he would be able to keep an eye on me. Were I to set it up anywhere else I would receive only the fifty thousand. This, indeed, proved to be the case. When I arrived back at my apartment in The Hague, I was sure that I had made the right decision. Not only was Holland centrally placed for northern Europe but The Hague was practically on the doorstep of Rotterdam the biggest port in Europe and one of the biggest in the world. What was more, I just couldn't figure out how anyone could possibly live and work in Paris. It was fine for a holiday but the pace of life there was far too frantic for me to consider it as a permanent home. By contrast my apartment in Holland was a haven of peace and tranquility: there the only indication that I was involved in business was the fax machine that had continued to vomit over the carpet in my absence. I was beginning to hate that fax machine. In the beginning it had been a fascinating toy which had enabled me to communicate all over the world in little more than the time it took to place a phone call. There were never any problems of insufficient postage, no strikes, no weekends, no damaged mail: it was the most reliable postman I had every come across. My correspondence arrived at the speed of light and I didn't even have to be properly dressed to receive it. Now the noise of that machine in operation woke me up at nights - on the increasingly rare occasions when I had actually managed to get to sleep and the information it brought was invariably not want I wanted to see. I was beginning to blame the messenger for the message. Most of the information had to do with my law-suits with the partners. I was disappointed to find out that the arbitration, which I had hoped would take place in March, was to be postponed for several more months. It was quite evident that the doctors' counsel was still looking for any loophole which would enable a postponement in the
377
PRIVATE SCREENING
hope that I would give up. One of their excuses concerned taking my deposition: I was to return to San at my own expense in order to allow them to interrogate me. As I saw it, it was my prerogative to refuse such an invitation: if they wanted to get information from me only to use it against me it was up to them to come to Holland. "You can stay with me if you like. I have a furnished guest-room," I said to John McKinley over the phone. "And there's a barn not too far from here were the rest of them can stay." I had just refused to extend the six months lease on my La Jolla condo as I had expected to use it during and after the arbitration. Now, with the additional delays, I was forced to call Richard Anderson and ask him to lease it again. Although events were slowly taking their course, the development that needed most immediate attention was the SCAT and Max Hollis versus Touzani law-suit from which the attorneys in Sacramento had withdrawn on grounds of conflict of interest as a result of my dispute with CBA. Now my partners and I found ourselves in the absurd situation of having to retain separate counsel in spite of being on the same side. I called John to discuss the issue and, having been unreliable with my payments on the CBA case, I doubted that he would be interested in taking on a second one. John, however, fully understood that his increased familiarity with my patents and my business made him eminently qualified to represent me at such short notice. Furthermore, the two cases were so similar they both hinged on the plaintiffs' trying to take advantage of an inventor and their apparent inability to see how much he had done for them. "The trial is set for the 22nd July, he said, "and there isn't much take your case on if you send me a five thousand dollar time left. retainer."
I finally had my corporation. Now that Touzani Inc. was a reality and Mr Laraqui was a one-third shareholder, my business was ready to get into gear. I had no confusion about my marketing-strategy this time: I knew exactly where I was coming from, where I was going and how I was going to get there. No more shooting in the dark. I was planning to follow the same strategy that had made Popeet a household name in America, which boiled down to using no middlemen whatsoever and exercising full control over the entire operation.
378
CRIMES OF PATENT
Popeet first introduced their product through television directresponse advertising which allowed them to identify the type of products the consumer would be most likely to accept and assemble all the data necessary to target their promotion. They used certain American cities Sacramento and Boston to name but two as their regional market before they rolled the product out nationally. Moreover they used the 800 toll-free number as an immediate response medium to sell the product, via credit cards, and collect data instantly. In this, their partners were the television stations themselves. Once the innovative aspect of the product was exhausted and direct-response was no longer a viable selling-method, the data that they had amassed about the potential market would facilitate selling retail at a national level. Consumer awareness and acceptance being accomplished, any initial doubts on the part of brokers and retailers over the salability of the product would be dispelled. Popeet's strategy combined with their low overheads and ownership of their own molds, had made them independent of me, Dennis Lawrence or anybody else who might have affected their operation and it guaranteed their prolonged existence in the U.S. market. In Europe, however, I immediately encountered a problem regarding TV direct-response marketing. There just wasn't so much of it as in the United States. What little that existed could only be found on certain European satellite channels broadcasted from England. Ironically, Popeet was still advertisingon those self-same channels and not paying me a red cent in royalties. This was further proof if any were needed of the damage done to me by the actions of my partners. While Holland and Belgium were perfect fields to test my directresponse strategy, the direct-responseitself would have to be based on print rather than TV broadcasting. I decided to place quarter-page black and white ads in some sports and camping magazines. It was the quickest way of getting to the consumer since these advertisements could be inserted in the publications at virtually any time up to the printing deadline. Anything more elaborate needed advance notice. My ads were rather unprofessional to say the least. In fact they'd been knocked together at virtually the last moment as a rough-andready means of testing the market. Perhaps it was this approach that generated so much interest on the part of newspaper and magazine publishers and agents: they were probably so embarrassed by the amateurish appearance of my ads that they were prepared to offer me just about anything to rescue the status of their publications. Within a few
379
PRIVATE SCREENING
days I was inundated with offers and calls and even received visits from their advertising representatives. The most interesting of these visitors was a Mr Spoel who represented a national publishing group their flagship being the hugely popular national newspaper De Telegraaf. Mr Spoel offered me a fifty percent reduction on a one hundred thousand dollar package which was to carry me through the summer. With the fifty thousand dollars already spent on promotional material, this soon led me to ask for a second mortgage on my apartment and a twenty thousand dollar bank-loan for which I was obliged to use my Mercedes as collateral. The package consisted of half-page and full-page color ads in some of the largest family-orientated magazines such as roughly equivalent to the National Enquirer the back cover of a national TV guide and several other specialty magazines. The strategy paid off. Before very long, hundreds of orders were coming in and, true enough, the more professional the ad and the more frequently it was seen, the more responses we received. One of my greatest pleasures was in proving wrong the many people who had claimed that the Dutch would not buy plastic vases. "Dutch people aren't interested in that sort of thing," they said, dismissively. "For them, plastic equals cheap and tasteless. Try Italy. Over there they buy them to put on graves." Well, I can't be sure about the use to which the Dutch put my vases after all, I didn't spend my spare time hanging around graveyards but they certainly bought a lot of them. Another myth perpetuated by the 'experts' was that nobody, but nobody, would pay thirty dollars for any plastic product let alone for something that they had only seen in a photograph. I was able to chuckle quietly to myself while at least half of my customers ordered two mixed sets of containers for fifty dollars. To my surprise, many of my customers were large companies wishing to conduct R & D. In the past it had not been uncommon for such companies to behave as if they were doing me a big favor and request fifty or a hundred free samples to be used in their tests. Now they were buying them at premium prices and not only would I benefit from their research into possible future applications but they were actually paying me for the privilege of conducting it. When Christina van Velzen called and was put through to me having been warned by Fenny that I didn't speak Dutch - I was immediately intrigued. With a name like that, she had to be a native but she spoke English with a clear British accent which made her sound very
380
CRIMES OF PATENT
formal and quite unlike any of the other private individuals or trade representativesI'd been dealing with. "Mr Touzani," she began, "may I ask you if your products are presently been marketed in any other fashion in Europe?" "Not right now," I replied, "but they probably will be in the future." "Would it be possible for me to buy a set now?" she asked. "Of course," I said, "I can take your order and have a package mailed to you today." "I'd like to pick it up, if it's possible," she continued. "Aren't you located in The Hague?" "No," I replied. "We're about twenty minutes away from there. The place in The Hague is actually my private residence and registered business-address." "Well, I live in Wassenaar," she drawled. "Less than a mile away from your home. Do you think you could send me a package by messenger and have him meet me there?" "Sure," I said. have one of my people meet you at the front of the building in, say, an hour." "I'd really appreciate it." Both Fenny and I were puzzled about this. We stared at each other for quite some time before, finally, I shrugged my shoulders and went to make the necessaryarrangements. Unfortunately Frank, our assistant, was already very busy packing orders and so I had no alternative but to go and meet Mrs Van Velzen myself. At least I would be able to check the fax machine while I was there. As soon as I turned into my quiet, little street, I noticed a big, white Mercedes which didn't belong there. I got out of my car and walked towards the front door with the box of containers in my hand. Suddenly I became aware of someone walking behind me. Surprised, I turned around to see a tall brunette in her early forties. She was dressed casually but with expensive good-taste. The only aspect of her appearance that struck the wrong note was a distinctly unfashionable hairstyle that made her look as if she'd just stepped out of a sixties movie. Beyond that, she bore more than a passing resemblance to Sue Ellen of Dallas fame. "Mr Touzani?" she said, in a much softer voice than she had used on the phone. "Yes," I replied. "You must be Mrs van Velzen." "Call me Christina," she smiled. "Is it possible to talk to you inside?"
381
PRIVATE SCREENING
I was pretty relieved at her request. I didn't much like the idea of taking twenty dollars from her in the street. Even though it was unlikely that anyone was watching, it still didn't strike me as very professional - or professional in a sense that I would have preferred to avoid. A s we went up to the second floor living room, I was hoping there would be no unwashed underwear lying about and I was pleased to see that the place looked reasonably tidy. I was also happy that my choice of furniture made the room vaguely resemble an up-market office Christina looked like the sort of lady who set great store by appearances. "I must say I'm fascinated by your products," she purred, collapsing and extending one of the containers. "I think they would make extremely good promotional items." "Yes, you're right," I agreed. "They've always had a strong gimmick-factor." "My husband is a banker," she declared, with the merest hint of a grimace, "And I feel that with a slot in the closure your product would work like an expandable piggy-bank. It would be perfect for banks to give away to their customers." This was not such a very novel idea: using the containers as piggybanks had certainly been suggested in the past. "What quantities are you thinking in terms of?" I asked. "I'm sure it would be in several thousands," she replied, airily. "That I can guarantee you. But since my husband is in touch with most other bank executives in Europe, it wouldn't surprise me if it were eventually in the millions." "Well, that sounds like a winner," I admitted. "I think I'd better also point out that these containers can be supplied with a suction-cup at the base so that children can expand them more easily. This has the additional advantage of allowing you to attach the container to a flat surface so that they can't play around with them too much." "Well, I'm sure that wouldn't stop me from playing with them," she said, smiling archly. As we walked to the door, I wondered how she had managed to make such an innocent remark sound so suspiciously like a come-on. We went downstairs, picked up another twenty or thirty containers from the storage room and put them in the trunk of her car. I declined payment for them. Christina promised to get in touch very soon. In fact, it wasn't more than two days later when I received another phone call from her at the office.
382
CRIMES OF PATENT
"I did hand your samples to the right people," she said. "But I need more. Would it be possible to meet you at the apartment again?" I found her request perplexing: one meeting at the apartment was excusable but two seemed gratuitous. I'd have thought that she would have been curious to know about our warehouse, our inventory and the way we did business and that she'd have taken the trouble to come down and honor us with her presence. Both Fenny and Frank were curious about her and she was already becoming the subject of some sly digs and innuendo. This time Fenny didn't seem quite so happy about my going to meet Christina but I put her remarks down to a joke that was getting out of hand. I picked up a couple more boxes and headed for the apartment. Back in our living room, I helped Christina to a drink and she began to tell me about the feedback that she'd had about the product. When she got up, crossed the room to where I was sitting and started jotting down figures in a notebook, I didn't attach too much importance to her proximity. It was only when she nestled down on the arm of my chair that it occurred to me that she was making a pass and that her intentions were not purely business- orientated. This was not a situation that was entirely new to me. In the past, a good many of my female acquaintances, either because of the admiration that they had for what I was doing or because of my single status or maybe even because of my charm, had decided to invest in me rather than my business. Yet I was confused about Christina's motives after all, she was married and was much older than I and these were two circumstances that I had never had to cope with before. Just as I was thinking about how I could extricate myself as tactfully as possible, the door flew open. I jumped out off my chair and so too did Christina. The only trouble with this reaction, involuntary as it had been, was that we both fell back onto exactly the same places as before, with the added difference that we were now, if anything, closer together. Fenny stared at us open-mouthed. What happened then, happened in Dutch. Fenny started shouting angrily and I was certainly in no doubt as to what she was shouting about although the finer points, and about ninety-nine percent of the cruder ones too, were totally lost on me. Christina rose from the arm of my chair in a state of absolute shock and horror. She backed towards the door with Fenny shouting at the top of her voice and gesticulating in a manner which left very little to the imagination. Finally, as
383
PRIVATE SCREENING
Christina opened the door to step outside, Fenny pushed her through it and slammed the door in her face. "Boy, I needed that!" she exclaimed, as she came back to where I was still sitting in a state of mild shock. "Did you see where that bitch was sitting? I knew that she wasn't just after expandable bottles!" I had never seen Fenny like that before and, to be frank, neither had she. Certainly the only practice she had ever got had been arguing with her mother but it had obviously stood her in good stead. Indeed her adversary had been almost her mother's age anyway. Having seen her like that, I was very glad that I hadn't given Christina any encouragement. Our future was beginning to look bright but, of course, there was a fly in the ointment: a Californian fly. My marketing investment was starting to bear fruit in the form of hundreds of orders and our peak selling period was rapidly approaching. At the very moment when my continued presence in Holland was absolutely crucial, I had to return to the United States to attend the trial in San
384
21 . SCAT
And so I left Amsterdam on a journey that, once more, was going to take me half a day and half a world away. I was sick at heart: the trip was taking place at the climax of my direct response program in Europe we had invested everything in it and it ought to have received my undivided attention. As well as remortgaging my apartment and borrowing twenty thousand dollars from my bank, I had a letter of credit for my products which I had to pay in less than sixty days. To say that Fenny and Frank were nervous would be putting it mildly. "Make no mistake about it," said Fenny, "you'd better be back here inside two weeks or we are in big trouble." "You mean bigger than the last big trouble or the big trouble before that?" I replied. "It's no joke, Bill," she said. "We've got everything riding on this. If it fails you'd better get used to the idea of going to work by bike and living at my parents'." That wasn't all. "I'm taking my vacation in Spain in two weeks, Bill," said Frank. "I can't change it so please make sure you're back." Two weeks. Another deadline. My life was full of deadlines now but it wasn't all negative by any means. In fact what I'd accomplished in such a short time had surprised even myself: a full range of European-sized containers had been developed along with a series of dedicated accessories which made them safer and more attractive to consumers. I had also come to own a substantial equity in all of the molds and the machines that produced them. Touzani Inc. was now the marketing arm for all finished products and was fully controlled by me - the Laraqui family was my partner in the business only as it related to household items. It was this business, however, that was to guarantee me a source of income. Fenny and one of the largest accounting firms in the world - Coopers
385
PRIVATE SCREENING
Lybrand had taken over the responsibilities once maliciously mishandled by Dennis Lawrence. It looked like a promising start. Aside from Touzani Inc., all my activities represented long-term projects aimed at improving our quality of life however slightly. The jerrycan was now at an advanced stage of research and development in Israel and Germany and though an expandable neck might be seen as a very slight improvement it is nevertheless true that the least radical approach to a problem is sometimes the most efficient and rewarding. My patent for the tamper-proof closure had found a home with an international leader in the field. Bericap was conducting extensive market research and product feasibility studies and were intending to apply my invention to saving lives. By this time, over two million dollars had been invested by my customers. This investment followed a carefully-plannedstrategy to make it compliment my work in the U.S.. Of course, had the CBA partners not decided to take the law into their own hands and allow Dennis to sabotage any initiative I might take, our worldwide operation would have been in the billion dollar range by then. Dennis Lawrence had virtually killed the American operation and our existing licensees, not to mention the large corporations who had been testing our products, had all given up on the project because of the politics involved. Owing to the tight grip I had on it, my European operation might yet survive Dennis' harassment. In spite of this promise of success, if not because of it, I was still living from hand to mouth. I was never sure whether I could afford my evening meal and breakfast the following morning always had an air of unreality about it. It wasn't a new situation: I'd been living in much the same way when I worked at CBA. That hadn't been the major worry of the past year: the major worry had involved the continued payment for my patents and the revival of old patents that had been abandoned as a result of Dennis' actions. Eight additional inventions had been filed with European and U.S. patent offices in the preceding twelve months and half of them had already been successfully issued. As my new products became eligible for patent protection I had to move quickly since failure to file before they were made public would permanently disqualify them. More deadlines. It was a Catch-22 situation that, to my despair, I had grown accustomed to. The SCAT trial was scheduled for July 23rd 1990 - one and a half years after the lawsuit was first filed. It had already cost CBA and me nearly a hundred thousand dollars. Max Hollis and his partners were
386
PRIVATE SCREENING
demanding five million dollars in damages resulting from an alleged breach of verbal promises. They, for their part, had flagrantly breached over a hundred pages of written contracts causing me the loss of millions of dollars in royalties, the loss of the patent protection in Japan and the abandonment of patents in over fifty-five countries. Their responsibility for maintaining the patents had been put back on CBA and me and it was this additional responsibility which had given my partners the ammunition they needed to attempt to justify their allegation that I had misappropriated funds for non-CBA business. CBA, Dennis Lawrence and I had counter-sued Hollis et for one hundred and twenty million dollars and that seemed a very conservative figure in view of the damage done to my patents. The complaint originally filed by SCAT had subsequently been amended to include the accusation that I had falsely licensed them the 'worthless' second patent - entitled Hollow Articles - instead of the first patent entitled Collapsible Bottle. In fact, this last patent couldn't have been filed since the grace period to do so had expired long before. The basis of my defense lay in the fact that not only was the second patent far more important than the first but that they had also been fully aware that the first patent had expired for international filing a long time before any agreement was considered. For this purpose John McKinley had retained the services of a patent attorney and of van den as our plastics expert. Although, with regard to my ongoing business, the trial couldn't have come at a worse time, my failure to attend would obviously result in their winning by default and claiming the rights to my U.S. patents to satisfy the judgement against me which, of course, was the aim behind their entire strategy. CBA would be instantly put out of business. airport I was picked up by Sam, my brother. At San Sam and I never had much to talk about and this wasn't about to change. He was to finish his engineering studies in one more semester and that was all that mattered to him now. Sam had an efficiency apartment on Nobel Drive, no more than a used to live. We unloaded my hundred yards away from where suitcase. He handed me the key. "See you in two weeks' time," he said, and drove off. I had been in San only a few hours and there was already a tightness in my chest and stomach - a physical symptom of the sad realization that I, who had hated and resented California for what it
387
PRIVATE SCREENING
had done to me, was home once more and of my anger against those people who had deprived me of it and had run me out. The knowledge that my house was only a few hundred yards in one direction and my CBA offices equidistant in another didn't help one bit. I called Richard Anderson and told him that I was coming to visit him. Richard was happy to see me but he was not in the best of moods: thieves had broken into his studio and had stolen most of his equipment. In fact the only things they had left were the hundreds of plastic bottles I had deposited with him. Although I sympathized with Richard, I was relieved that the burglars had had the sense to leave the bottles alone: I needed some of them for the upcoming trial. Aside from that, he had dozens of letters for me that had been forwarded from my house. The majority of them were from the Great Western Bank. "I'm sorry, Bill," said Richard, as he handed them to me. "But the bank has just foreclosed on your house. In three weeks' time it'll be put up for auction." I had been expecting this to happen. I already knew that the tenants who had been living there had refused to pay the rent because of Dennis' harassment. What I hadn't known was just how extreme this harassment had been. "He barged in there in the middle of a party yelling and screaming and generally throwing his weight around," said Richard. "He told them to leave immediately because the place belonged to CBA and they were using it unlawfully. As you can imagine, they got pretty worked up about that in fact you're darned lucky they didn't sue the ass off of you." I tossed the pile of letters onto a table without looking at them. "What can I say?" I asked, miserably. "This is all too much for me. You know, I never thought I could hate a person so much. I don't even have the words to describe it." The next morning, I drove to the law-offices of Matthew Herron in downtown San There I was to see my lawyer, John McKinley, whom I had met very briefly a year earlier: in fact I retained only a vague idea of what he looked like and would certainly not have recognized him had I passed him in the street. The purpose of my visit was the taking of my deposition for use in the forthcoming trial but to my surprise, not to say my horror, Dennis Lawrence's deposition had spilled over from the day before and I would be obliged to wait until he had finished.
388
CRIMES OF PATENT
John McKinley had been present throughout Dennis' deposition lawyer, Kevin Siebert. I was permitted to sit in on and so too had it for a few minutes before we broke for lunch. The depositions were being taken in a conference-room but as soon as I entered I noticed that the seating had been arranged in a very disadvantageous way. Max Hollis, Greg Freeman, Carlos Royal and Matthew Heron, their principal attorney, sat on one side of a large, rectangular table with their backs to the window; Dennis Lawrence, John McKinley, Kevin Siebert the lawyer representing Dennis and CBA and myself were seated opposite them. Now whether it was the result of pure accident or design will probably never be known but this seating arrangement naturally meant that we defendants were obliged to face the window and thus to squint into the bright Californian sun throughout the proceedings. At first it was merely annoying to have to screw up one's eyes all the time and see little more than the silhouette of whoever was speaking but as the hours dragged on it became painful and disorientating and, whether it was deliberate or not, it was certainly an effective refinement of the old bright desk-lamp routine. I felt insulted at having to sit once more on the same side as Dennis Lawrence but, of course, I was obliged to conceal my feelings. Siebert and McKinley also did their utmost to make us appear a solid, unified team and I cooperated with them in every way I could I, after all, was the only person in the room who had anything to lose. All the same, John and I had to play our cards very carefully for we wanted to give as little away as possible about my current status. However, as Bouteille, Dennis soon as John refused to give anyone copies of knew that I was doing well. Dennis Lawrence sounded confused and he was certainly forgetful. As we were supposed to be on the same side, it was a great temptation to interfere and remind him of the main events or at least try to jog his memory for him. I took advantage of the lunch-break to ask him to follow me to the stairway which was the only place where we couldn't be overheard. Dennis was surprised that I even addressed him and he followed me with obvious reluctance. He was clearly convinced that I intended him physical injury of some sort and I must admit that this was a pretty reasonable assumption in view of the harm he had done me. He certainly made sure that everyone knew where we were going. Once in the stairway, I closed the door behind us and turned to face him. He looked visibly uneasy.
389
PRIVATE SCREENING
"It's okay, Dennis," I said, my words echoing down the empty stairway. "You can relax. I only want to make sure of the relevant facts of the case just in case your memory fails you again. I wasn't here yesterday and I've n o idea what your answers were but I have to say that your performance so far this morning has been less than impressive." "Sure, Bill," said a relieved Dennis. "Go ahead. After all, we're here on the same side. Our opponents also acted as a team when the deposition of one of them was taken." "I'm glad you agree," I said. "Just don't talk to me about teamwork, okay? Or else one of us might not leave these stairs alive." "Just tell me what you want and let's go," replied Dennis, coldly. "What I want are the patents for the countries that SCAT were licensed to show the judge that they abandoned their contractual obligations unilaterally. Normally I wouldn't ask you for this, but your restraining order makes it impossible for me to ask Jeims Deimen. Besides,Jeims has already refused to hand them over." "Jeims already settled with the SCAT people," said Dennis. "He's got nothing to lose now." I only had time to ask Dennis a couple more questions regarding the case before we had to return to the conference room. I was about to open the door of the stairway when he halted me. "I'd like to ask you something," he said, in a conciliatory tone. "Fire away." "I don't need to tell you that our business in America has virtually collapsed since you left "Whose fault is that?" I interrupted. "That's my point it was your partners' fault," replied Dennis. "I only did what I had to do. Listen, I'd like to get together with you to discuss how we can get them out of the way and get back to business." I certainly wouldn't have said n o to eliminating my partners from the equation but the idea of continuing in business with Dennis Lawrence made my hair stand on end. On the other hand, if there was the slightest chance that I might yet salvage something of value from I was prepared to consider any alliance, however the CBA unholy it might be. I had already crossed a considerable psychological threshold by talking to Dennis at all. The last time we'd had any direct communication had resulted in his slapping me with a writ for contempt of court. And all I had done was to ask for my keys. "Sure," I said. "When and where?" call "Give me the phone number where you're staying and you."
390
CRIMES OF PATENT
A we stepped out of the stairwell, all eyes were upon us. We'd been s talking for almost ten minutes and I think everyone was surprised to see us both emerge on our own two feet with no apparent injuries. The depositions continued through the afternoon. I came out of van den now returned the conference room only to greet from Morocco, who had come down with Anna, his daughter, to see how his own deposition was to be handled and to talk to John McKinley. "Al," I said. "You will simply not believe what's happened." I think by this time the full implications of my impulsive meeting with Dennis Lawrence were just beginning to dawn on me. I filled in on the details. "Well," he sighed, "If you really do need those international patents, I guess I can't blame you. For the record, though, I have to say that I don't like it one bit." At that point the lawyers took a coffee-break. Dennis emerged from the conference room and went to shake Al's hand. To my surprise, he then asked me to join him in the main lobby for another discussion. Although this second conversation didn't cover any new ground, it did succeed in making everyone very uncomfortable. A discreet interview in the stairwell was one thing but by the terms of the restraining order imposed on me I wasn't supposed to be even talking to Dennis Lawrence and the main lobby wasn't exactly private. It was as we were taking the elevator down to the ground-floor that an interesting possibility occurred to me. "Dennis?" I began. "As you probably already know, the bank has foreclosed on my house." "Really?" said Dennis, with practiced concern but no noticeable surprise. "Yes. It's going to be sold at auction unless I can raise eighteen thousand dollars." "I'd like to help you, Bill," said Dennis, "but I'm afraid eighteen grand is a little beyond my means right now." "I wasn't thinking of you," I said. "I was thinking of the partners. After all, if my house really belongs to them, as they claim, they've got everything to lose by letting it go like that." "True," admitted Dennis. "I suppose you want me to talk to them." "That's right," I said. "Eighteen thousand is chicken-feed for guys like that."
391
PRIVATE SCREENING
"No problem," said Dennis, as the elevator doors opened onto the lobby, "I'll call Dr Thomas tonight. I don't think it'll be any big deal for them to lend CBA or yourself that amount." "Do you think they'll do that?" I asked with surprise. "Will they really?" I was aware that I must have sounded like a who had just been promised a new bike for his birthday. "Gee, Dennis," I continued. "That would really be nice. I mean you love that house almost as much as I do. You wouldn't want it sold at a fraction of its value to some vulture, would you?" "Consider it done," said Dennis, in his usual and sadly familiar way. nis. John McKinley was far from happy with my discussions with Den-
"I don't want you to talk to the guy any more," he said. "This is me very nervous." "Well, do you want the international patents or don't you?" I retorted. "You did tell me it was the only weak link in our case." John shrugged. "It's a weak link," he admitted, "but it's not a missing link. If you can get your hands on them without getting yourself into further trouble, do it. But be careful, will you?" course." "Well," said John. "There's been at least one new development following your meeting with Dennis. Where once the SCAT people were hoping to play one of you off against the other, they now seem anxious to settle with CBA and leave you to face the heat alone." "Did you know that Jeims Deimen has already settled with them?" I asked. "Yes. Without admitting to any wrongdoing, his insurance company accepted to refund SCAT the sixty-seven thousand dollars they invested in filing the patents. It's only you and them right now, Bill, and it doesn't make us look good. If you think Dennis is going to hand you the patents, don't cut any deal with him until I look at it first." "Don't worry, John," I replied. "I promise keep you informed every step of the way."
That same evening, Yehuda Olshansky arrived on a flight from Israel. Being a lawyer himself, he was anxious to assist John McKinley in any way he could. Having invested a quarter of a million dollars in
392
CRIMES OF PATENT
less than a year to promote my inventions in Israel relying on the same patent that the SCAT partners claimed was no good he would certainly provide a solid testimony to the strength of the technology that they had rejected. SCAT had been licensed for territories comprising some three billion people and had spent no more than Yehuda had devoted to a market which was a thousand times smaller. The following morning Younes, Kamal's brother, arrived on a flight from Casablanca. He was to testify that his family had invested two million dollars in the North African market. The fact alone that these people were traveling thousands of miles to help me should have been enough to make any judge question the motives of the SCAT people. As far as I was concerned, it showed the depth of their confidence in me and their commitment to our cause. It was a confidence and commitment that seemed to be shared by John McKinley. The only money I had ever been able to send his law-firm was a measly five thousand dollar retainer and that, by itself, would have gotten me no further than a single deposition. He was now fighting the case on a contingency basis and that alone was a mark of his confidence in our eventual victory. The next morning our team ground into top gear much to our opponents' dismay. For a long time they had cherished the illusion that, after what had happened between myself and CBA, I would not even be attending this trial, or at least that my presence there was highly doubtful. Not only was I there but I'd also succeeded in cooperating with CBA and in lining up witnesses from several continents. Quite clearly, they would have to revise their opinions. Suddenly both the SCAT partners themselves and their lawyers became unusually friendly and talkative. It was almost hard to believe that we were all there for the sole purpose of destroying one another. Carlos Royal, 'the deep pocket man', even asked me for a head-to-head talk in the hall about settling the case out of court. "Look, Bill," he began, exuding reasonableness, "why don't you just give us back our money and take all the time you need about it. We'll work with you." "You must be kidding," I said. "I didn't twist your arm to take my license. You wanted those countries: I certainly didn't. Now I'm stuck with them and, in the meantime, you've reduced my whole life to a shambles." Carlos immediately decided that he might fare better if he identified himself with the victim rather than the aggressors.
393
CRIMES OF PATENT
"Don't you see that I'm basically in the same boat as you?" he wheedled. "I've been duped by Rodney Commons too. Why don't we just shake hands and call it quits?" I snorted my disgust. "Well maybe you can blame it on Rodney Commons, Carlos, but you and I know there's more to it than that. Look. First I license you a patent for fifty-five countries. You form a company called SCAT, register it in Liberia of all places and agree to pay me two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year for the license. In addition, I'm to have twenty percent equity, right?" "You know it's right," replied Carlos. "Okay," I continued. "The next thing I know, you've started up this Dumont Corporation in Hong Kong a corporation in which I have absolutely no equity and whose existence I'm totally unaware of. Then you put the patent rights up for sale outright for thirty million bucks using Dumont to channel the funds to SCAT." "You'd have still got your two hundred and fifty thousand a year," said Carlos, shrugging his shoulders. "Would I?" I asked. "Sure, maybe I'd get one or two payments until you'd gotten rid of all the rights but then you'd have declared yourselves bankrupt and skipped off to Brazil with the thirty million. And what about my twenty percent?" "You'd have got it," protested Carlos. "From whom exactly? From a hundred different people all over the world? By the time I'd employed an army of lawyers to figure out who owned what, there wouldn't be a hair left on my head not to mention a dollar in my pocket. Nice scam, Carlos. No, I'm sorry. I'm tired of your kind of people taking advantage of my kind of people. I've caught you red-handed and you're going to pay for what you've done." Royal didn't reply. He simply turned on his heel and walked back to his lawyers to tell them about his failure. They were clearly panicking. Instead of taking my deposition that day, lawyer decided instead to take those of Yehuda Olshansky and van den Later, John came up to me and gestured towards the SCAT people and their lawyers. "I don't know what you did to them," he said, "but they seem to be completely disorientated." "You ain't seen nothing yet," I growled. "By the time I've finished with them they'll be crawling out of court on their hands and knees." "Well I wouldn't organize your victory-parade just yet." "What do you mean?" I asked, disturbed by his pessimistic tone.
394
CRIMES OF PATENT
"As you know," he said, "this dispute was going to be heard by a judge." "And isn't it?" "Not if the SCAT guys get their way. They're petitioning for a jury trial." "A jury trial? Where do they think that'll get them?" "Maybe nowhere at all. On the other hand it might just get them off the hook. Petitioning for a jury trial is a well-known delaying tactic, you see. If they get the go-ahead the whole business could drag on for months. You can be pretty damn sure that any jury that we think is okay will be instantly rejected by them and vice-versa too, probably." "Oh,Jesus H. Christ!" I groaned. "I can't go through all this again!" "That's exactly what they're hoping." That same evening I received a call from Dennis Lawrence. "I think we've still got a few things to talk about, Bill," he wheezed. "Namely getting rid of these radiologists and putting CBA back on its feet." "Uh-huh," I grunted, non-committally. "There are certainly one or two things I'd like from you." "Let's meet then," said Dennis. "Shall we say the in half an hour?" The Hotel was roughly half a mile away from my house. It was not a place that I relished revisiting since it was directly across the street from the CBA offices and in order to park my car I would inevitably have to pass right in front of them. B the time I switched y off the engine, I was close to tears. I had to wait in the hotel lobby for several minutes before Dennis showed up. We greeted each other cautiously and made our way to the restaurant. "Good evening, Mr Lawrence," smiled the waitress. "Your table is ready." She showed us to a secluded area not far from the reception desk. Had Dennis become such a regular customer that he had his own table? It wasn't usually necessary to make a dinner reservation at the - even on a Friday evening. And why the secluded table? Was he going to propose? I had eaten in this same restaurant a number of times in the past either in the company of Dennis or Michael Hudson. Its location, opposite the CBA offices, was an obvious advantage but Dennis, in particular, was attracted by its generous self-service buffet. At the Marriot
395
PRIVATE SCREENING
take the self-service buffet," I said. "YOU surprise me, Dennis," I continued, once the waitress had left us. "Only a slice of cheesecake? Are you sick or something?" "No," he replied. "I'm just not hungry." He certainly didn't look hungry. In fact if Dennis were ever to fall seriously ill, it wouldn't be as a result of malnutrition. He did, however, look distinctly nervous and ill-at-ease. He wasn't the only one either but, having just returned from a year abroad during which I had been deprived of a traditional American blow-out, I wasn't going to let my nervousness stand between me and the self-service buffet. What was more, I wasn't just feeling nervous. The man who was sitting opposite me had separated me from my son and utterly destroyed years of hard work and for what? For saving his thirty-five thousand dollar job? For getting even with me because I'd wanted to fire him? I hated him with a passion. I had come to realize early in my relationship with Dennis that, although he was pretty well incompetent in all the recognized areas of commerce, he was undoubtedly a talented and resourceful con-man. He wasn't the first one I had met, nor was he the best, but he was certainly the luckiest. Now I had to try and beat him at his own game and, however passionately I hated him, I would have to keep a smile on my face. "Dennis," I began, "what I need from you are three things which are very important for this up-coming trial. Most importantly, I need any of the patents relating to developing countries that you have at pet patent-expert has filed an affidavit claimCBA. If you recall, ing that the second patent - the one they'd been licensed for - was of little commercial value and probably wouldn't be allowed by any patent office. As you well know, you have proof to the contrary. Secondly I need the large photograph of our booth at the Chicago Bev. It shows the presence of the SCAT team and the variety of products that were available at that time. Finally I need a copy of the videocassette that I left at CBA which shows the five commercials that
gry."
you could eat yourself to a standstill. Or, in Dennis' case, a sitstill. In all of the times we had been there together, I'd never seen him fill his plate less than twice and, as he had a slight weight problem, I had always made some sort of comment about his overeating. I certainly wasn't going to break that habit now. "Would you like to order, gentlemen?" cooed the waitress. "Just give me some cheesecake," grunted Dennis. "I'm not so hun-
396
CRIMES OF PATENT
were run nationally. I think this ought to demonstrate that, at the time they were licensed, there was a respectable business in operation." "Okay, Bill," said Dennis, leaning back in his chair and regarding me levelly, "I've got all that but what's in it for me?" I was tempted to say "Ten years in jail, an eternity in hell and a curse to the seventh generation" but I restricted myself to a bland smile. John McKinley had suspected that Dennis was trying to cut a deal for himself and it seemed as though he was right. But it had to be a deal which I could not possibly keep. In spite of that, it would have to look like a genuine deal and not just a scheme to get him to cooperate. There didn't seem to be very much that I could realistically offer Dennis. After all, he had been put in control of the American operation and I couldn't very well give him something that he had already. What I offered him would have to come from outside the United States and I would have to respond quickly and make it look genuine. I could start by appealing to his greed. give you ten percent of my world-wide income on all of my inventions," I said. If Dennis was surprised, he didn't show it. "Well now," he said. "That sounds good but how will it affect the U.S. operation?" "The U.S. operation is irrelevant," I replied. "You've already told me that the business here is dead. We both know that. All we have to do now is bury it and the obvious way of doing that is by finding a way to dissolve That was a joke! The position of both my lawyer and myself had been that CBA had been legally dissolved from the moment my partners voted me out. But I had to make Dennis feel that I was prepared to work with him. "And how can we do that?" he asked. "I think the quickest way would be for you to admit to all the lies you told in trying to incriminate me. I don't think you'd have too much difficulty in convincing people: everyone knows you're a crook. Including my partners. They've only gone this far with you because they're afraid to back out and leave themselves liable for damages." I hadn't been exactly complimentary but my insults seemed to have absolutely n o effect on Dennis. He leaned forward slightly as if he wanted to be sure to catch every word. "Okay, Bill," he wheezed. "So what you want from me is an affidavit retracting everything I said in the past, right? You do realize that this would mean committing perjury, don't you?"
397
PRIVATE SCREENING
"Dennis," I sighed. "I already have everything I need to prove you were lying. It's all there in the depositions we took from the doctors. you to confirm the truth." I'm simply "All right, Bill," said Dennis. "What do you want me to say?" He took a pen and a sheet of paper out of his briefcase and leaned towards me as far as his bulk would allow. "Firstly," I replied, "I want you to say that the partners knew that all my overseas expenses were taken from my international royalties, to which CBA had no rights." "But I don't know that, Bill," said Dennis, looking at me with an expression of outraged innocence. "Do you want me to lie?" What sort of game was he playing now? I just couldn't understand why he was refusing to acknowledge something that both of us knew to be true. It wasn't as though anyone else was listening. "What do you mean 'lie', Dennis?" I snapped. "You sent the partners letters telling them that yourself - a year before you requested the restraining order. And what about when we first met three years ago? Remember the CBI scheme you cooked up? That was to try and interest European investors and you only took it on after you'd determined that there would be no conflict of interests with CBA. It's not even as if your neck out, Dennis. I have depositions from all the you'd be partners confirming the claims I've been making." There was, of course, a logical flaw in my argument: since I did have the partners' depositions to back my claims there was really no need for Dennis' confirmation of them. As far as I was concerned, asking for the affidavit was no more than a way of my offer of ten percent equity seem less of an unconvincingly over-generous reward for a few patent certificates, a videocassette and an old photograph. He had to believe that he was providing a crucial testimony. If Dennis had noticed this logical flaw, however, he certainly didn't betray it. In fact his entire behavior seemed slightly odd. Why, for example, did he persistently deny knowing facts that were so blatantly obvious facts that we both knew he knew? If his lapses of memory were genuine - as I rather doubted - then I shuddered to think what had he said in his deposition for the SCAT lawyers on the day before my arrival? Thank God I'd been there for the finish. Nevertheless, Dennis seemed satisfied with our arrangement and we agreed to meet at the same time the following day. In the meantime, he was supposed to draft a contract by which I would grant him a ten percent interest in all my ventures in return for the international patents, the videocassette, the photograph and his affidavit.
398
CRIMES OF PATENT
I returned to Sam's apartment with mixed emotions. In the past, I had spent a lot of time with Dennis Lawrence discussing such things as contracts, licenses and terms. It had all been with the aim of protecting my rights, my inventions, of securing an income or promoting our business. We had worked long hours together, bouncing ideas back and forth between us before they finally settled down into a formula. At the end of it there had usually been some sense of pride and satisfaction in what we had done and occasionallya certain disbelief on my part that the decisions I was making or contemplating were to affect millions of people. Dennis and I had got to know each other well - too well, perhaps, for our present situation. Now that I had to play a role, I wasn't at all sure about how well I could do it. Wasn't it just possible that could see right through me? On the other hand, for the first time since the restraining order had been imposed, I finally had the chance to set Dennis up. If I played my part right, it was just possible that I might get what I needed while giving him nothing in return. "Dennis," I said to myself, "this time I'm going to be quicker than you. We'll see who has the last laugh." I decided to call John McKinley in Stockton, where he had returned to spend the weekend with his family. "I've got good news for you, John," I said. "Dennis has agreed to give me the international patents." There was a short silence. "That's great, Bill," said John. "What did he want in return?" "Why should he want anything in return?" I asked. "After all, if we win the case it can only be good news for CBA." "Why should it be?" said John. "CBA has nothing to lose. They've just settled for forty thousand dollars over several years. You seem to be forgetting that you own most of CBA anyway and that, as far as the SCAT people are concerned, going after you is the same as going after your share of the company. As far as they're concerned, you're all that matters. And don't imagine for a minute that CBA will be unhappy to see you lose: it'll make you look like a crook and that certainly won't do them any harm when it comes to the arbitration." "Okay, John," I conceded. come clean with you. I proposed giving Dennis ten percent of my world-wide income in return for the items we need, plus an affidavit confirming our version of events." "An affidavit? You didn't ask him to lie, did you?" John asked, in an anxious tone.
399
PRIVATE SCREENING
"Of course not," I replied. "Mind you, he sometimes made it sound as if I were trying to do just that. He'll have the documents for me tomorrow and I'd like you to come over and have a look at them." "Fine," he said. "My flight arrives Sunday afternoon. I'd like you to come and me up. Bring the documents with you." "But John," I protested. "It really doesn't matter I intend to sign anything." "Bring them with you anyway." The next day was a Saturday. I drove up to Los Angeles to visit van den and his family. I hadn't seen all of them together since Casablanca and I was looking forward to testing his wife and Anna on how much French they had learned from their private lessons and finding out what impact their North African experience had had on them. Aside from this get-together, I also needed some of the early bottles that had produced in his factory three years before. These containers used the earlier technology supposedly covered by my first Collapsible Bottle patent which had not used the U-shaped hinge. "It's incredible,"said Al, as he toyed with one of the bottles. "I cannot believe that these people are claiming that the hinges have not substantially improved the durability of the product. Have they ever produced the opinion of a plastics expert to back up their claims?" course not," I said. "They're all the experts they need: experts in international marketing, experts in patent law, experts in plastics. Rodney Commons always reckoned he knew everything better than anybody else." "Well he's not the only one," said Al, regretfully. "Your own partners are behaving in just the same way and, of course, Dennis Lawrence's the champion of them all. I still don't think you ought to be talking to the guy but, if you must do it, at least be careful, will you? Just make sure he's not wearing a wire." "Come on, Al," I replied, laughing. "You watch too many movies. What judge in his right mind would allow Dennis to wear a wire? And for what? I'm not a drug-dealer, for Chrissakes. Just because I have an Italian name it doesn't make me a mafioso." "He wouldn't be the first guy to be wired for sound," grumbled Al. "Maybe so," I replied. "But what crime am I supposed to have committed? Is it a crime to try to protect my inventions - government patents, I might add from unscrupulous people?" shrugged his shoulders.
400
CRIMES OF PATENT
"Just be warned, that's all," he said. Sadly I couldn't spare the time to spend the evening with the Van den family. I had to drive back to San to meet Dennis Lawrence: same place, same time, same waitress, same order. "Still on a diet?" I asked. Dennis grunted his reply. He opened his briefcase, took out a handful of papers and pushed them across the table to me. "Here you are, Bill," he said, anxiously. "This is everything we talked about yesterday.Just sign at the bottom." I now had to play my part very carefully. I seized hold of the papers in a way that, I hoped, suggested that I had long been awaiting this moment and was ready to do business. I didn't want to look too anxious but I did want to look as if what he was giving me represented a golden opportunity. There was a two-sheet affidavit and several sheets of bilateral agreement in two copies. I looked at them intently, determined to find at least a few sound reasons and enough mistakes to oblige him to redraft the documents. Given Dennis' habitual incompetence when it came to drafting legal papers, I didn't expect this to be such a tough job and, in fact, even a cursory glance at the pages in front of me revealed more holes than you'd find in the average pepper-pot. After reading the first few lines of the contract I almost found myself laughing out loud. Incapable of writing from scratch, it had always been Dennis' way to copy standard contracts practically word-for-word from a law book. This had the unfortunate result that he always seemed to neglect the circumstances and specifics pertaining to a particular case. This had done untold damage in the past and had made me look a complete fool in front of several of my customers. Dennis' weakness had first shown itself when I allowed him to redraft the licensing agreement with Popeet unsupervised by me. His final version allowed Popeet exclusivity on all direct-response media for all collapsible containers simply because he had forgotten to insert the words 'reusable' and 'empty' which had been in all previous contracts. I signed the contract ignorant of his mistake. Popeet, of course, refused to make the correction. "Tough," said Issy Kroll. "But thanks anyway." Dennis had been quick to apologize but the damage was already done. I held my breath for fear that Burple and Peter would go running to their lawyers and accuse us of double-licensing.
401
PRIVATE SCREENING
Ever since that experience I had kept a closer eye on Dennis whenever contracts were involved and discovered many suicidal mistakes on his part. Finally I transferred the responsibility to Michael Hudson. I could never understand Dennis' lack of concentration little did I know that the man had much bigger ambitions on his mind. Keeping a straight face, I tried to look as if I were seriously reviewing the contract. Finally, I suggested a few changes and offered some logical reasoning to back up my objections. He seemed to accept this a little too philosophically and I began to have the uncomfortable feeling that we were both playing a similar sort of game. Obviously, Dennis wanted the ten percent equity all right but something told me that he wasn't taking my offer completely seriously. Somewhere below the surface lurked an ulterior motive. "Okay, Bill," he said, at length, "so if I make these changes you'll sign the documents?" course, Dennis," I replied. "Now where are the international patents I asked you for?" Dennis clicked his teeth and shook his head in a pretty theatrical approximation of self-frustration. "Oh, I'm sorry, Bill," he sighed. "I forgot all about it. You see I was working all night to get these documents finished and it entirely have slipped my mind. But if you'd like to meet next Tuesday night, them for you then." It was quite clear to me that nothing was skipping Dennis' mind least of all the things I had asked him for. "Okay, Dennis," I said, "but you'd better have them then because we'll be in the middle of a trial. It was ironic that only a year before I had been discussing a similar kind of transfer of equity with Jeims Deimen. But Jim's contracts had been models of professionalism and by the time the exact terms had been committed to paper I had become so familiar with them that I could have recited them from memory. And that had not been for a mere ten percent but sixty. Of course the deal between Jeims and myself had been negotiated at the time when most of my international patents were still alive and my U.S. operation had still been salvageable. In addition, I had never had reason to suspect that Jeims Deimen was anything less than fair and honest in his dealings with me. By contrast, as far as Dennis was concerned, it was always difficult to see at what point his incompetence stopped and his basic dishonesty took over. One thing was certain, however: my failure to sign the
402
CRIMES OF PATENT
first draft of our agreement or even the second, third, or fourth drafts would not necessarily be construed as a delaying tactic. In fact, had I signed the agreement there and then, Dennis' suspicions would have been aroused immediately. Perfecting our previous contracts had been a process which usually occupied several weeks and, if he were to take my intentions seriously, I would have to be consistent with my normal behavior. It was all part of the game. The next day, at three p.m., I picked up John McKinley from San airport and took him to the Omni Hotel. As we drove downtown I handed him the set of documents I'd received from Dennis the previous evening. John spent the remainder of the journey reading them. "This guy doesn't want much," he said, sarcastically. "You're not actually going to sign these documents, are you?" "Of course not," I replied. "Next Tuesday he'll bring the international patents and show him another reason why he has to rewrite the agreement." "Don't you think he might get suspicious?"asked John. "Him?" I snorted. "I doubt it. By now he's so used to having his contracts corrected, he probably won't think twice about it. No, with a man like him I can carry on playing this game indefinitely." We spent some further time talking in the hotel lobby after which I left to meet Yehuda Olshansky at the Days Inn. Yehuda and I had arranged to have dinner together. He too was not at all happy about the discussions I was having with Dennis, even though he understood my motives perfectly and could see that I had no intention of entering into any form of written agreement. But when I handed him a copy of the contract so that he could see for himself how carelessly it had been drafted, he pushed it away violently. "I don't want to touch this, Bill," he said, sharply. "I want nothing at all to do with it." Yehuda was an attorney. The force of his reaction baffled me greatly. On one side I now had a lawyer who, though unhappy with the situation, was prepared to tolerate it and, on the other, another lawyer who despised the idea altogether. "I come fifteen thousand miles to help you," Yehuda explained. "To demonstrate to the judge that the patents SCAT have been licensed are perfectly good and I've brought all the evidence to support it. I don't believe you need anything else. If what I have to say doesn't do it then nothing will." "Surely a little extra insurance won't do any harm?" I replied.
403
PRIVATE SCREENING
"It could do you a lot of harm," objected Yehuda. "Aside from the fact that you're playing a very dangerous game with Dennis Lawrence, you must bear in mind that the more evidence you submit, the longer this trial is going to take. A judge will most likely set a deadline for the duration of the case and, like it or not, you'll be held to it. Don't, whatever you do, overstretch yourself."
404
22 . D.A.1
I had entered into the agreement with the SCAT team exactly two years earlier, following two months of negotiations. Rodney Commons had initially signed a letter of intent for thirty days, to allow him to assemble investors and canvass the expert opinion of Bay Area patent attorneys. Once that had been done, he wrote the first draft agreement and insisted on my own attorneys' giving their written acknowledgement of my acceptance and understanding of it. At first I assumed that he had taken this last step for my benefit but it later became clear that he already had his eyes on an eventual law suit and wished to avoid the possible accusation that he had used his status as a professional attorney to take advantage of me. It would not have done to have me appear as the underdog. When all contracts had been signed, I allowed Rodney Commons to deal directly with my patent attorney, Jeims Deimen, and proceed with the filing of over fifty separate patents. This was not a new situation for either Rodney or Jeims who had worked together a year earlier when had been licensed for the same set of countries. In fact patents had already been filed in some of the countries SCAT had requested. A condition of my signing the SCAT agreement had been that failure to fulfill my responsibilities could not be interpreted as a breach of contract thereby enabling SCAT to withhold its royalty payments. Since SCAT had agreed to conduct their own marketing and deal directly with a patent attorney, my only personal responsibility was my role as technical consultant. This too quickly became irrelevant one and only marketing strategy was the outright sale of since the rights of all of their countries followed by a speedy withdrawal from the business. Moreover, not content with selling the rights to the countries for which they'd been licensed, they also put those of Australia, Holland and the United States up for sale. In retrospect, it's not
405
PRIVATE SCREENING
entirely surprising that the first person to cotton onto their game was Dennis Lawrence: they had all graduated from the same school of life. MondayJuly 23rd had been long-awaited. By the time we arrived at Superior Court, all the parties concerned were already the San there including Dennis Lawrence and Kevin Siebert, lawyer. Among those absent wasJeims Deimen who had already settled out of court and, without admitting culpability, had agreed to refund the money he had received from SCAT. CBA had also reached an out-ofcourt settlement to the tune of forty thousand dollars a settlement that they would never have entertained had their main witness me not been tainted by accusations of embezzlement. It hadn't stopped them from turning up however "If CBA have already settled, why are they here?" I asked John McKinley. "There's going to be a pre-trial hearing this morning," he explained, "and they have to persuade the judge to approve the settlement. I have to dispute it since CBA's agreeing to make payments could be construed as an admission of guilt and would severely damage our case. What's more, if they stay a party to this law-suit they'll inevitably have to fight alongside us and that would oblige Dennis to hand over the international patents." Once inside the courthouse we were shown into a large conference room dominated by a long, oval table. At the end of it stood a separate an attractive, dark-haired woman in her fordesk and behind this ties who introduced herself as the judge. Having obviously read summarized statements from the lawyers concerned in the case, it was clear that for the first few minutes she was trying to match names to faces. Strangely enough she didn't appear to have any difficulty in locating the inventor. I never could figure out why. As soon as the hearing came to order, Matthew Herron, lawyer, jumped out of his chair and petitioned the court for a jury-trial. "Mr Herron," replied the judge, "irrespective of the circumstances you mentioned, your application was made after the permitted deadline. I shall inform you later as to whether it is denied or approved." As soon as Herron sat down, Siebert stood up as if he had been sitting on the opposite end of a see-saw. He informed the court of the settlement reached between CBA and SCAT and sat down again, whereupon John McKinley shot to his feet, as if he were spring-loaded, and argued against the settlement. The entire proceedings reminded
406
CRIMES OF PATENT
me of a cross between a child's toy and a sort of surreal circus. The toy consisted of some strange system of counter-balances by which one lawyer would shoot into the air as soon as another lawyer collapsed. The circus comprised a weird clown-act in which none of the protagonists behaved predictably or said what they meant. The judge rejected John McKinley's arguments and approved the out-of-court settlement. We were then asked to wait outside for half an hour. Shortly after our return the judge addressed Mr Herron directly. "I'm afraid your petition for a jury-trial has been denied," she said. "You are all requested to proceed immediately to Room 203. Judge Hansen normally presides at the Municipal Court but he will be hearing this trial." Judge Hansen was a gray-haired man in his late fifties who seemed to be wishing he was someplace else. He greeted everybody with a smile that looked as if it had been squeezed out of a tube and he managed to move his head continuously in every possible direction without actually looking at anyone. A soon as he had settled down and his head and come to somes thing like a state of inertia, Judge Hansen cautioned John McKinley and Matthew Herron that the trial was not to continue beyond the end of the week, that no unnecessary testimonies were recommended and that any waste of time would not sit well with him. Deadlines again! I immediately felt a stab of disappointment. These were the sort of statements that were more appropriate to a schoolroom than a court of law. Since when was the law supposed to be subservient to matters of time and expense? Surely it did not matter how long it took the scales of justice to find their level as long as the final judgement was the right one? Like most people of my age, I had grown up with re-runs of Perry Mason's courtroom dramas where the rule of law always prevailed and the wrongdoer got his just desserts. It was the old, traditional myth of justice the shows were black and white and so were the verdicts. Thus, I had always had the naive conviction that the innocent had nothing to fear and yet here, immediately, I had been confronted by the notion that if my innocence was not sufficiently established by Friday afternoon, the judgement could certainly go against me. Another great disappointment was the apparent lack of public interest in the case. The courtroom could have easily seated a hundred people and yet the only person present who was not directly concerned was Jeims Deimen's lawyer. My inventions had touched the
407
PRIVATE SCREENING
lives of millions of people and then abruptly and mysteriously disappeared and yet even a neighborhood wedding drew more spectators. John McKinley and I sat at a long table on which stood a wide assortment of promotional brochures and materials. Among them were examples of the latest products developed in Morocco and Israel and my one hundred page color book, Sacree Bouteille, showing the story of collapsible container technology over the last six years. The purpose of this collection was to show how successfully other customers, also located in developing countries, had exploited their licenses and demonstrate that there was no logical reason why SCAT could not have done likewise. I had thought this was a very practical idea that might succeed where thousands of words could fail but John McKinley was not at all happy with it. "I'm not so sure you should advertise all your latest achievements," he said. "The judge knows about your dispute with the partners and, if you ask me, he's already suspicious about your character. I think it would do you far more good to appear powerless and victimized than prosperous and healthy." "I haven't produced this stuff," I protested. "This was all made by my customers. I guess I shouldn't have worn my suit." "I just want to warn you that it could do you more harm than good," replied John. Matthew Herron began his opening statement as I had much imagined he would by alleging breach of verbal promises and inducements on my part. John McKinley followed up by making the same accusations as they related to a hundred pages of contractual agreement and flagrant breach of it. These two statements took up the remainder of the day. The next morning, the plaintiffs began putting a succession of witnesses on the stand: Max Hollis, Max Hollis' girlfriend (who, to my surprise, was also one of the SCAT partners), Greg Freeman and Carlos Royal. First they were examined by their own lawyers who gave them every opportunity to put forward a case which, though shaky, was clearly well-rehearsed and then they were cross-examined, rather more ruthlessly, by John McKinley. It soon became apparent that not only were their testimonies uneven and inconsistent but blatantly self- contradictory. First, for example, they claimed that they had received no samples or brochures or any sort of promotional material in order to test-market or otherwise develop the countries they had been licensed. This statement was soon revoked in favor of an admission that they
408
CRIMES OF PATENT
had, in fact, been supplied with hundreds of these items free of charge. They even went on to acknowledge meeting and knowing Peter the Bernsteins and other customers who would have supplied them with any quantities they had asked for at discount prices. They were obliged to admit that, failing the co-operation of other customers, there were certainly thousands of supermarkets and even the Amazing Bottle Store which could have sold them a variety of our products. As these tortuous testimonies proceeded, the expressions on the face of Judge Hansen left no one in any doubt at what he felt about them. Such were his grimaces of contempt and pure disgust that John y and I actually began to feel sorry for the SCAT partners. B the time the court recessed on Tuesday, they all looked as if they'd been put several times through a meat-grinder and come out as semi-liquid sludge. My third meeting with Dennis Lawrence was to take place that strategy for the next day would be to same evening. I knew that discredit my second invention the Hollow Articles patent which they had been licensed - and it was crucial that I obtained my international patents from him. As I left the courtroom I was once more approached by Carlos Royal. He looked dispirited and beaten. "Look, Bill," he began, "I think we should settle this out of court, don't you? Just tell me what you want. So we made a mistake, okay? I admit it. Just tell me what you want from us." "I don't want anything from you," I replied. "I just want to be left alone." I don't think that the SCAT people could have offered me anything that was as valuable to me then as simply watching them squirm on the witness-stand. Suddenly it seemed as if everything I had claimed about them was being vindicated. I had called them cheap crooks and now they were being seen as cheap crooks. For me, that was a pleasure worth millions. Before going to my meeting with Dennis Lawrence, I returned to my apartment. It wasn't so much that I wanted to shower away the dirt that I'd accumulated from my close contact with crooks as that I wanted to call Fenny in Holland and ask her about the results of the latest advertisements. Fenny was going through a very emotional period. The combination of over-work, loneliness and my absence was pushing her to a dangerous state of depression. Not only was she swamped with hundreds of orders that she and Frank couldn't handle most of which
409
PRIVATE SCREENING
they were pushing aside to await my return - but she was worried sick about the trial itself and deeply concerned that I was meeting Dennis and asking him for help. "I keep having nightmares about it," she confessed. "I really am a nervous wreck, Bill. Dennis was much too smart for you before and I'm afraid he will be again." "If it's any consolation, Fen," I replied, "I really don't need him any more and I'm not even sure I'm going to meet him tonight. It looks as though the patent expert we hired is going to conduct an international search in the countries SCAT was licensed. It ought to confirm that many of them were granted successfully." "So you don't need to see Dennis?"she asked, hopefully. "No, I don't think so. On the other hand I have to discontinue my contact with him in some sort of discreet way. I have to prevent the bank foreclosing on the house. You do care about the house, don't you? I know no one in town who could put out the eighteen thousand dollars that I need to save it." After eighteen months of being constantly in Fenny's company, I had come to respect and rely on her intuition. In a way, it went entirely against my scientific training but, on the other hand, it's a poor scientist who draws no conclusions from first-hand experience. I knew she was sure to be right about the dangers of meeting Dennis Lawrence but what I had said about the house was true enough and, in spite of Fenny's anxieties, I could see no practical way in which meeting with Dennis could possibly do me harm. Later that evening Dennis Lawrence and I were shown to a secluded table in the dimly-lit interior of the Hotel restaurant. The table, as always, had four chairs arranged around it but this time Dennis didn't sit down opposite me but took the chair on one side of me instead. In spite of the warm weather, he was wearing just as at our previous meetings a thick sports jacket. He was perspiring freely and looked decidedly uncomfortable. What was more, he was sitting so close to me that every word he uttered caused a fine spray of spittle to spatter my face. His entire behavior struck me as so odd that I vaguely and others hadn't been right and wondered whether van den Dennis really was wearing a wire. But it was a ridiculous thought that I instantly dismissed from my mind. Dennis handed me the revised documents and again I adopted a serious expression and pored over them in an attempt to find a fresh
410
CRIMES OF PATENT
excuse for his needing to redraft them. To give myself some time to think, I asked him where my international patents were. "I knew you'd ask that!" he said, with the air of someone who is angry with himself. "I'm sorry, Bill. I had them all ready and then I went and forgot them." If I'd harbored any further doubts about his playing the same game as I, they were now dispelled entirely. I tried my best to hide my disappointment: offering Dennis a ten percent equity in my assets had not been my reason for wanting to meet him, after all. It was certainly not intended to buy an affidavit the content of which would merely reaffirm my partners' own depositions. Maybe it was time to cut my losses and walk out. "But I promise give them to you tomorrow," added Dennis, as if he had read my mind. "Guaranteed." I had to think quickly. The best solution seemed to be to have him deliver the items to the courthouse where my lawyer and others could act as witnesses. "That'll be fine, Bill," Dennis wheezed cordially. bring them to you there at twelve o'clock. Now why don't you sign those documents. They incorporate all the changes you insisted on." True enough, while the documents still contained enough errors and ambiguities to render most lawyers apoplectic, the changes that I had stipulated at our last meeting had all been incorporated. The affidavit had also been amended. "Look, Dennis," I said, changing my tactics. "An affidavit in which you simply say what the partners have or have not done is pretty poor evidence. Frankly your word isn't worth a tin nickel and there's nothing that I can hope to retrieve from you that would compensate me for the damage you've caused. It's those rich, unscrupulous partners of mine that I'm after." "Uh-huh," grunted Dennis. "The damage they caused me is irreversible," I continued. "Our reputation has been so badly tarnished that it'll take us forever to get back where we were by which time there'll only be a few years left in the patent. Who's going to take a license from us when the patent will soon be public domain? No, Dennis. Any money coming to us now will have to come out of the doctors' pockets." "So what is it you want me to do?" asked Dennis, with apparent unconcern. "Why don't you sign those documents for now and tell me what it is you need?"
411
PRIVATE SCREENING
"No," I replied. "I want you to rewrite this affidavit but this time, instead of putting that you knew those facts were correct, I want you to put that you knew that the partners knew that those facts were correct." It was some relief to say that at last. This statement would allow me to clear my name if, at some later date, Dennis accused me of having sought perjured testimony. I now had depositions in my possession which were matters of public record. Not even Dennis could claim ignorance of their existence and his conveniently unreliable memory would get him nowhere. "Okay, Bill," he replied, with a slight shrug. " 11 do that. But I want 1' you to add the corrections to the affidavit in your own writing." It was the first time he had ever asked me to do such a thing in all the dozens of times that we had revised documents together over the past two years and this only confirmed for me - not that any confirmation was now needed that we were both acting in the same play. Reluctantly, I took his pen and scribbled my additions in illegible characters. I was sure he wouldn't be able to read my writing and this would give me a further excuse for brushing him off the next day. By the time I left Dennis, I felt exhausted. It had been a long day. All I could think about was my conversation with Fenny. Her voice was echoing and re-echoingin my mind and that was the way I wanted it if I was going to get any sleep at all. A soon as I got home I phoned Richard Anderson and asked him s to meet me in the courtroom at twelve o'clock the next day. "I want you there, Richard," I said. "This guy expects me to sign documents for him and I'm not going to sign them. On the other hand, he'll have some international patents on him and I want them. You have to be there to witness the situation." "Scared he'll punch you out?" asked Richard. "You never know what will happen with him," I replied. "Look," said Richard. "If Dennis wants to fight, just get him to chase you. He'll fall dead of a heart-attack after two steps." The next morning I arrived at the courthouse shortly after eight o'clock. Since the case began, I had usually met John McKinley every morning in the lobby of the Omni Hotel in order to discuss the day's program. Today, however, there seemed little point in such a meeting. This was a measure of the confidence I had gained as a result of the ridiculous image that the plaintiffs had painted of themselves over the previous two days. It had only taken that long to prove that they were
412
CRIMES OF PATENT
in breach of contract and that their original lawsuit, claiming inducement and breach of verbal promises, had been a total fabrication with absolutely no basis in truth. Today we were to hear Carlos Royal and Rodney Commons testify, but there seemed little that they could do to alter the impact of the previous testimonies. It was as I was walking down the long hall leading to the floor courtroom that I began to realize that something was seriously wrong. As I approached the small crowd gathered outside the door, every head turned towards me. Sitting on the narrow benches ranged against the walls, the SCAT partners stared at me and whispered among themselves. Dennis Lawrence was sandwiched between two guys who looked suspiciously like FBI agents. As soon as he noticed me, John McKinley rushed up, grabbed me by the arm and swung me in the direction of the escalators. "Hey, what's going on?" I protested, as he hurried me out of earshot. "You see those two guys with Dennis?" asked John. "Well the one on the right is the District Attorney. Apparently your meetings with Dennis resulted in some illegal behavior on your part." "What?" I exclaimed. "It looks like Dennis was wearing a wire after all," continued John. "Are you sure there was nothing you neglected to tell me?" "Sure I'm sure," I replied. "Absolutely nothing. As far as I'm concerned, my meeting with Dennis is scheduled for twelve o'clock when he's supposed to hand over the patents." "Well, I wouldn't count on that if I were you," said John, grimly. "Have you signed the documents he prepared?" "You mean have I signed over ten percent of my assets to him?" I said. "You've got to be kidding! I just led him to believe that I would." John scratched his head and threw the crowd outside the courtroom a distracted glance. "Look, I don't know what these guys are fishing for," he said, "but I guess we'll find out soon enough. Right now we have a trial to attend." I was not at all surprised that Dennis Lawrence had manipulated a situation to his own advantage but I was surprised that he'd managed to drag such big names into it. How had he roped in the District Attorney? After all, Dennis' reputation in San was not exactly lilywhite: the lawsuits he'd been involved in, the accusations of fraud that had been levelled at him and the FBI investigation that had been conducted on his previous company were all matters of public record and
413
PRIVATE SCREENING
could be checked in the archives of the very building I was standing in. It would have been extraordinary if he had single-handedly manipulated any law-enforcement agency in town without the backing of some influential figures such as my partners in CBA and their aggressive lawyers. Certainly, whoever was actually pulling the strings was doing and had merely found a willing agent in so from outside San Dennis Lawrence. But now was not the time to lose my concentration or my nerve. It was sufficient for me to know that I had not done anything wrong. As we resumed our seats in the courtroom I noticed Yehuda sitting at the back. He looked depressed. He had tried to warn me but I wasn't sure what he had tried to warn me about. So it seemed that we weren't going to get our hands on the international patents after all but that wasn't such a big deal: we'd get round that problem somehow. In fact if Dennis had been wearing a wire and our meetings had been recorded, the resulting tape would probably have been of more use to me than to him. I had bluntly accused Dennis of setting me up and of deliberately destroying my company and had not hesitated to remind him of how much our customers despised him. He had made no attempt to deny any of these points: indeed any attempt to do so would have immediately aroused my suspicions. "Well, let's get down to business, shall we?" said John, before the trial was about to resume. "I don't really think there's any need to put too many of our witnesses on the stand. In fact Yehuda Olshansky is the only one worth presenting. There's no real need for van den or Younes Laraqui." "But Younes has come all the way from Casablanca," I objected. "He and his family have spent two million dollars promoting the same invention that SCAT has tried to discredit." "Yehuda can cover exactly the same ground," said John. "Our patent expert can do the rest. He's been scheduled for tomorrow." A soon as the session got under way, Matthew Herron stood up s and addressed the judge. "Your honor," he said. "With your permission, I'd like to introduce a witness out of order as we have a testimony of major importance." It was clear that the judge had also realized that there was something amiss that morning. His gaze kept straying to the back of the courtroom where a group of strangers had seated themselves. Alongside Frank, Jeims Deimen's lawyer, now sat half a dozen men and
414
CRIMES OF PATENT
women with notepads in their hands. Near them sat Dennis Lawrence and his two bodyguards - one of whom had been identified as the District Attorney. The judge accepted Herrons request. Kevin Siebert, CBAs lawyer, took the stand and was sworn in. ''Your honor," he began, "Mr Touzani is the defendant in a case scheduled to be heard in San Joaquin County in a few months' time. He has met with my client, Mr Dennis Lawrence, on a number of occasions and has attempted to bribe Mr Lawrence to commit perjury." A hubbub of conversation ran around the courtroom. The men and women at the back scribbled away furiously. John McKinley sprang from his chair. Finally he knew what was going on. "Your honor!" he yelled. "Mr Siebert is referring to a case that has nothing to do with this present trial. His testimony is irrelevant and I thoroughly protest these allegations. Mr Siebert's clients have already settled with the plaintiffs." Judge Hansen seemed to agree with him. He raised both his hands to quieten John down and then turned to the plaintiffs. "Mr Herron," he said, "I don't see how accusations of this sort are relevant to our present case and I don't think I should allow them." Herron obviously detected some doubt on the judge's part. He replied immediately. "Your honor, if Mr Touzani is trying to set up his own CBA partners and gain false testimony in order to incriminate them, then my evidence is relevant in the sense that this is basically what he's done with the SCAT partners." Judge Hansen pursed his lips and then slowly shook his head. "Well, Mr Herron he declared, "I don't doubt that this is important testimony I'm sure that the District Attorney wouldn't be sitting here if it weren't but the fact remains that this is not the proper place to introduce it. I still consider it irrelevant. You can step down, Mr Siebert." Siebert did as he was told. He immediately left the courtroom with Dennis Lawrence and the District Attorney in tow much to the relief of John McKinley and myself.John, however, was far from happy. "I've got to tell you, Bill," he muttered. "This does not look good at all. On the positive side, these people obviously know that they don't have a case against you because they couldn't wait until twelve o'clock to see you refuse to sign the documents: it would have been concrete proof that you didn't intend to go along with any of the deals you made and it would have blown their case wide open. That's why they
415
PRIVATE SCREENING
were here so early they suspected your motives. On the other hand, the fact that you now cannot be seen to refuse to sign does us no good at all and the sort of accusation they're making puts a big questionmark over your character." "You keep about character, John," I replied. "This trial isn't about my character or anyone else's character come to that: it's about a simple breach of Can't these judges read English?" John sucked a tooth reflectively. "I wish it were always as simple and straightforward as that," he said. "Unfortunately there are few judges who are so fair-minded and objective that they're immune to a bit of old-fashioned mud-slinging. If you sling enough, some of it will stick." "I just don't believe this!" I exclaimed. "How the hell can I have bribed Dennis? First of all I didn't give him anything and I had absolutely no intention of doing so: secondly I wasn't asking him to say anything that wasn't true and that can be corroborated!" John shrugged. "The trouble is," he said, "that since the judge has now ruled Siebert's testimony inadmissible, the allegation of bribery to commit perjury can't be answered in this court. A it stands, the allegation has s succeeded in placing a big question mark over your integrity and there's very little you can do to remove it." The next witnesses were Rodney Commons and Carlos Royal, who both seemed to have grown in confidence since the day before. It seemed clear that they now considered that tarnishing my reputation had gone some way to compensating for the lies and contradictions of their partners. However, this did not stop them from continuing with the same contradictions themselves. The allegations with which Herron and Siebert interrupted the trial had sounded like something taken from a movie-script but they still had the effect of casting a cloud of discomfort over John McKinley and myself. We continued to feel optimistic about the outcome of the trial but I, in particular, was depressed that Dennis Lawrence had been playing the exact same game as I but had, apparently, played it a damned sight more successfully. While I had relied on assembling a group of individuals including John, Yehuda, and Richard to bear witness to what what I was doing and the truth behind my deception, Dennis had gotten himself out like James Bond. I remembered laughing at warnings and accusing him of watching too many movies. He should have reminded me that in America life imitates art and not the other way around.
416
CRIMES OF PATENT
In a way, it was ironic that I, who had worked on some of the most advanced electronic equipment in the world, had never even considered taping my conversations or bugging meetings and had relied instead on keeping my friends informed of my actions. My friends were reliable and dedicated but they were no substitute for a miniature tape recorder and the D.A.. Richard arrived punctually at twelve o'clock only to find that there was to be no exchange between Dennis and me. On top of this, I couldn't really understand how the District Attorney had become involved. Irrespective of what he may or may not have denied during the recordingsessions, Dennis was not committing perjury by stating true facts. At least Judge Hansen had determined that any question of bribery or incitement to commit perjury would be dealt with in another court but that was small comfort right then. "I wouldn't worry about it now, in any case," said John McKinley. "If they're planning to use this against you in the arbitration with CBA, we still have plenty of time to respond to their accusations." "I'm not worrying about it," I replied, unconvincingly. "I just don't know how to explain this to Fenny." That same evening, I picked up Younes Laraqui at his hotel and took him to have dinner with me at a Mexican restaurant in La Jolla. Younes was in his late twenties and had been a student at the University of California at Davis when I was living there. He had graduated as a food processing engineer at about the same time I started the CBA partnership. Over dinner I filled him in about the mishaps of that morning. Younes listened intently and his final judgement on the situation was that, as far as he was concerned, America was nothing more than an endless soap-opera that had been running for so long that the original idea had been forgotten. The trial didn't occupy our thoughts exclusively that evening. Younes and I agreed to drive up north together once the trial was over and indulge in a sentimental tour of our old haunts in Davis. I also wanted to take advantage of the trip to locate Lisa through her sister Ann and, if possible, spend some time with Andrew. It had been nearly two years since I had last seen him and I had been desperately trying to keep my memories of him at bay as succumbing to them was a sure way of marring any small pleasure I managed to extract from life and was guaranteed to bring me to tears on any occasion. The last time I had heard from Andrew had been when his mother had mailed me a birthday card from him. There had been no return address.
417
PRIVATE SCREENING
The next morning I stopped by Younes' hotel to pick him up. He was not there. There was a note in his handwriting awaiting me at reception: DearBill, yes t e rI hate trials.They scareme. What happened to you day only served to confirm that. I have spoken to my family and they have ordered me back home immediately. Good luck. Younes
I was saddened that Younes had come all that way only to be intimidated by some second-rate out-takes from L.A. Law. However, he should have understood that trials are apt to get as dirty as that and even dirtier. That was the nature of the game. As concerned as I was about the disappearance of an ally, I was far more anxious that Younes might have misunderstood the implications of what was happening and had therefore given his father a very pessimistic interpretation of events. Although, with only a one third stake in Touzani Inc., Kamal posed no real threat to my European operation, his controlling interest in AMBN the factory in Casablanca which held all of the molds meant that he could deprive me of any shortterm income and could destroy my marketing efforts as they stood strategy was to keep us off-balance and attack us right then. If emotionally and psychologically,it was remarkably successful.
At the courthouse, the fourth day of the trial was due to kick off latest witness: their patent 'expert'. Unfortunately we were with to receive a further surprise. "Your honor," said Matthew Herron to Judge Hansen. "With your permission I should like to introduce another witness out of order Mr Dennis Lawrence." John McKinley and I swapped glances. The District Attorney was still sitting at the back of the court. I noted the expectant look on his face. "What's he up to now?" I asked John. He shrugged his shoulders and did not reply. After taking the oath, Dennis' first question from Herron was aimed at getting him to elaborate on the circumstancesand purpose of our meetings. John intervened immediately to put an end to that line
418
CRIMES OF PATENT
of questioning on the same grounds as those which had applied to Kevin Siebert the day before. However, for some reason that I can only explain as a major miscalculation on his part, he proceeded to follow the same line of questioning himself. "Mr Lawrence," he said, "on how many separate occasions to did you record your meetings with my client?" "On three occasions," replied Dennis. "And Mr Touzani requested you to perjure yourself?" "He did." "No further questions." I wasn't about to start an argument with my attorney but I found it quite incredible that having objected to Dennis' testimony on grounds of irrelevance, he had seen fit to pursue the points that had been raised. Perhaps he was trying to suggest that I had been the victim of entrapment as indeed I had but I had the brief suspicion that he might have been trying to distance himself from me. I had kept him informed about the nature and content of the meetings but if, indeed, I had tried to persuade Dennis to perjure himself, he would have to make quite sure that he couldn't be accused of complicity. It was clear that Judge Hansen was becoming annoyed and frustrated. Although he had allowed Siebert only a few minutes to speak, it had been long enough to shift the focus of the trial away from contractual issues and onto the character of the inventor. Now he was faced with Dennis Lawrence, who only a few days earlier had been a defendant in the case, being called as a witness for the prosecution. Neither Dennis nor his lawyer seemed to have any qualms about changing loyalties. It was rapidly becoming clear to me that, as far as they were concerned, the final outcome of the case regarding my squabble with SCAT was of secondary importance to say the least. They were not interested in the rule of law and seemed indifferent to the fact one and only asset - my American that I was trying to protect patents. They themselves had settled with SCAT against all legal and commercial logic as well they could afford to: they were to pay SCAT money that had been made out of my inventions from profits that would otherwise have gone to me and of which I was to be deprived. Ensuring that I lost the case and, hopefully, seeing me stand trial for perjury was far more important than their settlement with SCAT: it would establish them in a strong position for the forthcoming arbitration and would paint me as a cheap chiseler. So far, the one major obstacle to the partners' achieving their goal had been the large number of customers and suppliers who had unanimously vouched for my
419
PRIVATE SCREENING
personal integrity. If they could only convince the arbitrators that these people had been misled and that I was basically dishonest, the case would be virtually won. The continued harassment was beginning to have a physical effect on me. I started shivering and trembling as I had done a year and a half earlier when the judge in had sentenced me to commercial death. I was invaded by feelings of hopelessnessand despair. It seemed as if I couldn't get a fair trial anywhere. One could not entirely blame opponents for opposing or crooks for being crooked but there seemed to be something inherently wrong with a justice system which paid greater attention to the size of one's bank balance than to the strengths of one's arguments and which seemed to count entertainment value above mundane considerations of right and wrong. patent expert: The trial proper eventually continued with Mr Kleneki. He was supposed to prove that my second patent for which SCAT had been licensed and which had been the only patent valid for international filings at that time had little or no commercial value. Moreover he had to prove that there had been little chance of it's being accepted by any patent office - particularly since I had released the technical brochure entitled Breakthroughs in Bellows Design before the filings had been made. Kleneki claimed that many countries - mostly in Africa required absolute secrecy of the technology prior to its filing and that disclosure of it would render it unpatentable. Naturally, he neglected to say that this minor technicality referred to no more than a handful of countries of extremely low commercial value countries that were far more concerned with matters of basic subsistence than with international convention treaties. Furthermore, the brochure had made its debut at the nearly two months after their filings had been Chicago made and the SCAT team had, after all, hired the services of Jeims Deimen, with whom they had reached an out-of-court settlement, to file the patents concerned and to deal with any issues relating to them. A always, the inventor was expected to be an expert on everything at s the time that the contract was signed and would eventually be discredited by a third party at a later date. In all respects, he was the perfect fall-guy. "Look, John," I said to McKinley, "I could call the guy who printed those brochures and have him certify that he delivered them to me no less than two weeks after the deadline for filing the patents. I say I could but, of course, I can't he's been served with a restraining order and he can't talk to me."
420
CRIMES OF PATENT
"Don't worry about it," replied John. "Our own patent expert has assured me that he can prove that these countries were insignificant compared with the majority of the countries where patents were still pending. There is one thing I wish though - that these guys would quit raising all these off-the-wall objections to cover up their incompetence. One minute it's point A, the next minute it's point Z and none of them have any real relevance anyway." Mr having tried to impress the court with his all-embracing knowledge of patent issues, now delivered a sermon on the extrusion blow-molding process as it applied to my bottles. I found it amazing that this self-styled plastics expert could presume to speak with such confidence when he had never actually seen one of my containers manufactured. I told this to John McKinley and he immediately lodged an objection and was, as quickly, overruled. "I wouldn't concern yourself too much," he said, after resuming his seat. "Tomorrow call you to the stand. As the author of so many inventions and with all those years spent developing the bottle, if you don't qualify as an expert then nobody does. You can have a ball-game discrediting our 'expert' here." The day ended with Yehuda Olshansky's testimony. He testified that in spite of the thousands of miles that separated us, I had been able to provide him with all the help he needed to develop his products. In fact the help he actually needed had been minimal since he had hired the services of specialized companies in Israel who had helped him to understand my assistance and expand on it. He had become entirely self-sufficient in a very short period of time and was now conducting several research programs unilaterally. "Mr Olshansky," asked Matthew Herron, "are you paying Mr Touzani any royalties?" "No," replied Yehuda. "Mr Touzani has donated all his royalties to a charitable organization." Right then, I wished I hadn't. Although my gesture had been made as much for political as philanthropic reasons, it had certainly been made at a time when my belly was full. I could only hope that Judge Hansen didn't think I could still afford to do things like that. After another sleepless night, I arrived at the courthouse the following morning looking and feeling as if I'd been run over by a truck. John McKinley was already there and was deep in conversation with Henri Charmasson, our patent expert. Henri was French as anyone
421
PRIVATE SCREENING
could have readily detected as soon as he opened his mouth. Togcthcr we discussed the relevant patent issues and the investigation he had conducted to prove that my first collapsible bottle was technologically inferior to my sccond patent. "It is all quite simple," he explained. "The information I was able to collect proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that the first patent they claimed had substantial commercial value should not, fact, have been in the first place. I came across several inventions describing containers using the same technology and prcccding yours. Your first patent requires that the inner hinges should be thinner than the adjacent sections, and that is the exact claim you in your second patent but in clearer English." "So what's bottom line?" I asked. "The bottom line is that the Hollow Articles patent makes your technology viable. A1 of the products that you are presently manufac1 turing prove it. Besides that, on reading the that you SCAT, it is to me that you only for your second patcnt Articles - especially since you continue 'as it applies to containers only'. If, as they claim, they were under the impression that you them for the Collapsible Bottle why it be necessary for you to limit their use to containers only? It doesn't make sense." "Well," I rcplicd, "I only wish you'd been the last couple of days.Weve been pinned down trying to defend a case that has absolutely no relevance to what supposed to be doing I'd like to have of seen you make sense of that. It takes me all my time to make why I'm here at all. I came here to teach some people a lesson and uphold the law and be glad if I manage to get again with my shirt still on my back." the trial had resumed, John McKinley called to the stand to explain the difference between my first and sccond "I object, you honor," said Herron. "Mr is not a patent expert. His opinion has no bearing on this case." "Sustained," said the judge. McKinley was outraged. "Your honor!" he almost shouted. Mr Touzani is the only person is capable of explaining his inventions. Can he at present least describe their technical merits?" "Mr is not a plastics expert, your honor,"objected I-ierron. "He cannot act as such." "I agree, Mr Herron, said the judge.
422
CRIMES OF PATENT
I was shocked and bewildered. I had spent several years dealing with the collapsible bottle technology; I had written up the patents; I had been involved in subsequent research and development and every aspect of production, promotion and marketing. The technical brochure I had written had become a standard work for research institutions and patent offices around the world, all of whom acknowledged my expertise in this field. Now that expertise was being denied and discarded at a most crucial moment. "John?" I said, in a low voice. "Could you ask him to allow me at least to draw the difference in technology on the board?" "I will allow it," responded Judge Hansen, "only as long as he doesn't open his mouth." It was incredible...absurd. I couldn't have been more amazed if Judge Hansen had ordered me to be manacled to my chair and gagged. Here, in twentieth century California, was the justice system of the Middle Ages. I moved towards the board like an automaton and silently sketched the two designs. "That's it," I said, when I had finished. I returned to my seat wondering whether I'd just been in contempt of court. John McKinley and I were so dumfounded by what had just happened that we didn't even bother discussing the issues regarding the breach of contract: we simply forgot all about them. Even when John gave the floor to Matthew Herron, I couldn't bring myself to take it seriously. That was soon to change, however. "Mr Touzani," Herron began. "In your previous meetings with Dennis Lawrence did you ask him to give perjurious testimony regarding your partners?" From somewhere a long way away - far from the courtroom, far from San I heard John McKinley's voice shouting 'Objection!'. The sound of it echoed and resounded in the back of my mind as if it were fading into the depths of an endless, dark tunnel. I could feel the blood rising to my face and neck, burning like hot tar. My stomach convulsed as if something were being squeezed out through my mouth to explode into the courtroom.
It was an animal screaming. An animal that had felt the deathblow and knew its hour had come. "I can't believe this! Not three days! Not three days in a row!" It was my voice all right but it it was chopped into fragments and barely recognizable. The sounds would not emerge in their right order or relationship. My face was wet with tears.
423
PRIVATE SCREENING
"I can't believe the District Attorney is wasting his time on me! He's wasting taxpayers' money while the real criminal is sitting right there!" I jabbed my finger towards the blurred form of Dennis Lawrence. "Do you want me to tell you why I met him? To get the plaintiffs' granted patents to prove that they were being granted! My patent attorney sent them to CBA by mistake and Dennis confiscated them. I had no other way of getting hold of them." Had that come out right? It had taken a slow, intense effort to squeeze out each individual syllable and still it emerged incoherent. But I was vaguely aware of the court recorder taking it all down. If I'd started to speak in tongues or had scampered around the floor gibbering like a baboon she'd probably have still been calmly typing away. I couldn't focus my eyes. They were blurred and stabbed with needles from within and everything around me was bathed in a bloody glow. I heard John screaming'Take the fifth amendment! Take the fifth amendment!". What the hell was the 'fifth amendment'? It was something you heard in detective films when a Mafia boss was accused of a gangland killing. It was another line from a script. It wasn't real. What was real was the sidewalk rushing towards me as I plummeted from the skyscraper. I have to write my will, I thought. I don't have much time now. I stepped down from the stand and staggered back to my chair. "I've got to go out," I said to John in a distant, alien voice. sit outside in the hall." Outside the courtroom I found a bench in a secluded area and sat down with my head in my hands and sobbed. I found myself nodding like a lunatic and saying over and over again 'God help me. God help me.' By the time the court broke for lunch the visions had ebbed away but the feeling of unreality was still with me. John McKinley took some some time to find me. When he did, I didn't look at him: I simply felt him sitting next to me. "Bill," he said, gently, "what happened in there this morning will damage our case severely. You should never have lost control." don't say," I murmured. "Yeah, I guess it's too late to say that now," said John. "You couldn't help yourself. Look, if you want to save your European operation I suggest you get out of here right now and catch the first available plane to Holland. It's quite conceivable that they're about to arrest
424
CRIMES OF PATENT
you. The fact that they haven't so far might only be because they haven't enough proof yet." "And no doubt they want me to supply them with it in there," I said, jerking a thumb towards the courtroom. John said nothing. Instead, he rose to his feet and motioned me to follow him. We didn't exchange another word until we had left the courthouse and turned our steps towards the Omni Hotel, a block or two away. "They're going to use up what little time we have left in plugging away at this bribery allegation," I said, at last. "The going to sit at the back of that room until I scream 'Okay! 1 did it! Take me away and lock me up!'. And what's more it'll all be at our expense. I haven't paid you much of anything to defend this case and now you're having to waste your time on fabricated stories that have absolutely no relevance to what we're supposed to be dealing with." "You can say that again," agreed McKinley. "Your bill now stands at more than fifty thousand dollars. We don't normally operate on that sort of credit unless we're convinced we're going to win. And we would have won if you hadn't messed with Dennis Lawrence." "Meaning you believe the bribery allegation," I said, coldly. "Meaning it was pretty likely that he'd try to set you up in some way," corrected John. "Of course accusing the District Attorney of wasting taxpayers' money hasn't exactly helped matters you can now rest assured that he'll go to any lengths to prove you wrong." We reached the Omni and sat down to lunch in the restaurant. We had lunched together almost every day that week, discussing the events of the morning and our strategy for the afternoon. This time, however, our conversation was limited to speculation on the eventual outcome of the trial and it didn't look good. "I'd say the verdict is now a foregone conclusion," said John, regretfully. "If Judge Hansen had the wisdom of Solomon, I'd say you might still be in with a chance. Unfortunately that's a bit too much to ask. One thing's for sure: there's no way you can go back in that courtroom in your present physical and psychologicalcondition. Get out of here. Go back to Europe." I nodded my agreement. "It hurts me just to be here now," I said. "Strange, isn't it? This is my country. I'm an American citizen and I'm ...I was proud to be one. I guess I still am in a way. The trouble is that if I stay here I just know that something even more terrible is going to happen to me. I don't feel safe here any more."
425
PRIVATE SCREENING
"I have to say I think you're right," said John. "I'm sorry, Bill. You know I gave it my best shot. I wish you a lot of luck where you're going - you're going to need it." We finished our meal with the sort of foreboding and finality that must have attended the Last Supper. As we prepared to leave, John asked me one more question. "I suppose I really ought to ask you to settle your account with us before you go," he said, "but I know there's isn't much point in asking you can't pay what you don't have. Do you think you could pick up the tab for my hotel expenses though? I see that you still seem to have credit cards." I smiled thinly. "And you're probably wondering how I've managed to use them all week in view of my present credit rating - the one that Dennis Lawrence has gone to such pains to engineer. They're European cards, John. They're still valid." "I guessed they must be," he said. "One of life's little ironies," I continued. "The minute I registered my new corporation with the Dutch Chamber of Commerce, Mastercard and American Express sent me their forms automatically. All I did was sign them and send them back." "As simple as that?" "As simple as that. That's how much the Europeans revere corporations. As far as I know, nobody even bothered to run a background check on me." "Well, I'm sorry to have to ask you to pay my hotel expenses, Bill. I must be the very first lawyer in history to make such a request of his client." "I'm not just your client," I said. "I'm also your friend. Don't worry. I don't mind."
John McKinley and I parted company outside the Omni. My car was in the parking lot of the Best Western Hotel but I left it there and took a taxi-cab to the airport followed by the first flight to Los Angeles. Was I being followed? At first I didn't bother to look, but, as time went on, paranoia started to creep in. But was it paranoia? I had laughed at the idea of Dennis Lawrence's wearing a wire. While I'd been trying to recover my business, he had been auditioning for a part in The Untouchables. Maybe the FBI had a tail on me now. At Los Angeles airport, flights to Holland were overbooked. I had no choice but to check into a hotel until the following morning. My
426
CRIMES OF PATENT
suitcase and all my belongings were at my brother's flat in San My briefcase was still at the courthouse. The only things I had were what I was wearing. I bought a shoulder-bag and a shaving-kit. That evening I phoned Fenny to tell her I would be arriving ahead of schedule. "Is everything okay?" she asked. "Sure. Great," I replied. "But I'm very tired." "How did the trial go?" she asked. "Okay," I lied. "The verdict won't be out until three weeks from now." The next morning I checked in at the airport at the last possible minute. In the departure lounge I skulked in corners, scanning the room for any sign of the police or a man with a writ in his hand. I could never think of Los Angeles airport without remembering the uncertain man with the large parcel of legal documents that had set these terrible wheels in motion. When my flight was called I remained behind until everyone else had boarded the plane and then I broke cover, rushed through the ticket-check and sprinted onto the plane just before they closed the main hatchway. A the engines whined into life I settled down into my s seat and took my first breath of the day. A few minutes later my American dream disappeared beneath the clouds.
427
23 . DA2
I remember my flight back to Amsterdam for a mixture of confusion, relief, disbelief and plain, old-fashioned fear. I was happy to be there on the plane and not staring at the bars in the county jail but it was not a comfortable feeling to know that for the first time in my life I could be a wanted man. If I was, what price-tag had they put on my head? Would I be treated as a bargain-basement crook who would only be arrested if he happened to turn a corner too quickly and walked slap-bang into the D.A. or would they really go to town and start extradition proceedings to prise me out of Holland? Perhaps a warrant wouldn't be issued at all but the very fact that it could be constituted a personal insult to me and to everything I had ever stood for. It had to be a mistake. It was beyond belief that such things could happen in America. Why had I wasted my time and money not to say my mental health - by returning to California for the trial? I couldn't have fared any worse if I'd stayed in Holland. I certainly wouldn't have given CBA the opportunity and the pleasure of setting me up. Instead I'd delivered myself straight into their hands: they now had all the ammunition they needed to drag my reputation through the mud and justify their own actions. Was I really so naive or was the world simply a crueler place than to do my duty as the I'd imagined? I had gone back to San )general partner of CBA and answer the complaint that had been made against me. I had believed that the weight of evidence against the SCAT partners would guarantee the failure of their law-suit and, indeed, until the penultimate day of the trial, my victory had seemed assured. Yet instead of answering questions about the strength and practicality of my patents I had found myself in the totally unexpected situation of having to field accusations of bribery. Strangely enough, a year later, a similar drama was played out in front of the entire world when a black judge, Clarence Thomas,
428
CRIMES OF PATENT
ed his confirmation hearing for admission to the United States Supreme Court. He expected to go through a routine defense of both his professional record and his views on contentious issues of the day. Instead he found himself facing allegations of sexual-harassment from a former employee. Needless to say, the focus of the hearing shifted entirely to this issue and his past record which presumably had been good enough to advance him as far as the Supreme Court - was virtually ignored. Even if he had been guilty of the allegations, how could that possibly have affected his competence as a jurist? As far as I know, 'sexual-harassment', while undoubtedly very unpleasant for the woman concerned, is not yet a crime and is certainly a long way from rape or 'deviant behavior'. And finally the entire matter boiled down to a simple case of her word against his anyway. Be that as it may, the 'routine' hearing swiftly degenerated into an unofficial trial with the world's press hanging on every salacious detail. It was a trial in which the jury was the general public and the penalty faced by the defendant unique in legal history - was loss of promotion. The final verdict was that of the judge himself: 'no job is worth what I've gone through'. One thing was certainly clear from what I had been through: when the essential point at issue is the probity of an individual, to be accused is to be convicted. It was difficult to see anything positive in the events of recent days. The only consolation that I could dig out of the morass of lies and deceptions was that I had saved my house from going to auction. At least in that respect, Dennis had kept his word. Why he had decided to keep his word was naturally another question. In view of the events of the previous two days, I could be sure that if he had rescued my house from auction, it wasn't so that I could live in it. I missed Fenny's company. The flight was interminable. No, it was more than that it seemed as if time itself was suspended: I was comfortably seated in an air-conditioned limbo, some four-star ante-room to Hell with waitress service, a pre-damnation movie and a choice of newspapers in three sorts of gibberish. Outside the tiny window beside me an invisible sun shone on a flat, featureless expanse of cloud. The sky was a deep, impenetrable blue the sort of blue that holidaymakers dream of but never see again once they've left the plane. It ought to have been hot out there but I remembered that at thirty-eight thousand feet the outside temperature is a long way below zero. Maybe that was the Hell we were all waiting for. A the flight proceeded, I began to experience strange, new physis cal sensations. An unexplainable energy was coursing through the tips
429
PRIVATE SCREENING
of my fingers. I found myself squeezing the seat-cushion and nipping my legs in a pincer-like grip. I felt no pain. If someone had taken a white-hot stiletto and plunged it through my thigh I don't think I'd have felt a thing. Fenny met me at Schiphol airport and drove me back to my apartment in The Hague. We hadn't said much to each other on meeting and during the trip we were both silent. Of course she suspected that I had gone through some sort of terrible ordeal but she had no idea of the full extent of what had happened and put my nervous behavior down to the waiting period before the verdict was given. In the past she had seen me fold back on myself whenever something major was about to happen and I was impatient for the outcome. Back at the apartment, Fenny noticed the bruises on my legs where I'd pinched myself during the flight and she was shocked. I offered no explanation. Events took a distinct turn for the worse when Ashley, our three month old puppy, came near me for attention. Suddenly her playfulness became too much for me and, without even realizing what I was doing, I kicked her viciously. When Fenny protested, I squeezed her arm so tightly that she began to scream. In retrospect I can see very clearly what brought about this violent response: the truth was that watching Ashley playing with his puppytoys reminded me too much of Andrew the last time I had seen him. I was trying so hard to put thoughts of my little son to the back of my mind and I suddenly resented the reminder. Now, with Fenny screaming at me and Ashley cowering in a corner, I felt unworthy of Andrew anyway. I had never been like that before. In all my life, the only sort of violence I had shown had been in response to some physical threat. Fenny thought she had seen me at my worst during the restraining order episode but she had certainly never seen me act like this. She knew that something was very wrong but, as far as she was aware, the trial had merely concerned a breach of contract and consequent money awards. How could that have possibly changed me to the point where she was afraid to be in my company? In time, I told her. She was heartbroken and furious with America, with the law, with CBA and Dennis Lawrence for having brought me to such a state. It was some relief to tell her about it but it didn't seem to have much effect on my state of mind or the behavior resulting from it. The only short term solution that Fenny could see was to move in with her parents until I had sorted myself out.
430
CRIMES OF PATENT
I knew that I had changed. I knew I was sick but I didn't know what was wrong with me. I hadn't shaved since I left California and my cheeks were covered in thick stubble. I would leave the apartment and pace up and down the Theresastraat for hours on end. I would wander aimlessly through the park, mumbling to myself, vaguely conscious that people were staring at me. I looked and acted like some alcoholic down-and-out: my hair was uncombed; my shirt hung outside my pants; I wore a thick, leather winter-coat with the hood over my face in spite of the fact that it was the middle of summer. In the park I came across kindred spirits sleeping rough on benches or swilling down cheap wine, their every possession crammed into battered plastic bags. I would stop and mutter at them and they would shout at me in unintelligible Dutch or broken English or simply stare at me with eyes from which all hope had long since fled. I found myself talking aloud to invisible companions and shouting wildly in the street. "To hell with you, God!" I would growl. "God? There is no God! If there's a God I want him down here so I can punch him out! You know something, God? You're a pretty mean son-of-a-bitch!You have a pretty sick sense of humor, right?" Then, one day, I returned to my apartment to find the telephone ringing. Frank, at the warehouse, was about to go on vacation; there was an immense backlog of orders; Fenny was refusing to have anything further to do with the bottle. I could see her point. As far as she was concerned, it was destroying our relationship and it was destroying me. I didn't want to hear about the bottle either and I hung up on Frank almost immediately. Fenny called. She only wanted to know if I was still alive. She had begun to realize that I was far more of a threat to myself than to anyone else and decided to come back. When she finally arrived at the apartment, she took one look at the chaos inside and left again immediately. She went across the street, sat in the car for hours, then came back to check on me again. I had developed a new hobby: wood-carving. With the help of a sharp kitchen-knife I was adorning an expensive coffee-table with collapsible bottles and six, seven, eight figure numbers extending from one side to the other and always preceded by a dollar sign. Some of the carvings went so deep into the wood that I was able to wedge the blade in them and run it experimentally over my wrist. It didn't hurt so very much. "Have you gone crazy?" yelled Fenny, as she watched me.
431
PRIVATE SCREENING
back on it, this was something of an understatement but, as a general diagnosis, it was accurate enough. "That's a new word," I replied. "It's funny, you know. I always prided myself on having more common-sense than most other people. Looks like I was wrong." But Fenny was certainly right: I was going crazy. If I'd had the money to do so, I would have consulted a psychiatrist straight away. Fenny returned to her parents'. A few days later she phoned me again. "I have some news for you, Bill," she said. "I wanted to tell you when you were in America but I've been waiting for the right time." "What is it?" I asked. "I think I'm pregnant." I almost laughed. "You can't be serious,"1 said. "You're lying, aren't you. You're just trying to cheer me up." "I am serious," she said. "If you don't believe me buy a pregnancy testing and prove it." I hung up on her but the idea of having a baby and a family again started to occupy my thoughts. At the very least it put an end to all my theorizing about Good and Evil and the nature of the universe and the purpose of existence. Perhaps 1 had just stumbled on the real purpose after all: the simple perpetuation of the human race. Wasn't that the ultimate accomplishment? Irrespective of what mankind did or didn't achieve intellectually, the reproductive process would blindly carry on. It required no logic, no intellectual endeavor, no planning and little in the way of financial support. The dumbest animal could do it. Even an amoeba could manage that trick at least. Finally we were all servants of the selfish gene. I decided to drive the forty minutes that separated Fenny from me. Suddenly I realized that I did have something to look forward to after all. In fact the suspense was killing me. Fenny was, perhaps, going to give me something that required no lawyers, no contracts and no judges. Something that nobody could take away. "So, Fen?" I said, when we were alone together. "You did lie to me, didn't you?" "Maybe not," she replied. "We'll wait and see, shall we? I only wanted to shift your perspective a bit to show you that there's a lot more to life than chasing crooks or constantly looking over your shoulder."
332
CRIMES OF PATENT
Fenny's strategy was effective. This, together with the continued support of her family, gradually began to turn my attention away from destructive self-examination and towards the outside world. About a month after arriving back in Europe, I left my refuge on my very first business trip. I was not totally enthusiastic about the idea of visiting Bericap in Germany but I was fulfilling a long-standing obligation and I felt dutybound to honor my promise. Fenny insisted on accompanying me: she was determined not to leave me alone for a minute. In Mainz, Mr Krautkramer immediately noticed the physical changes that had been wrought in me since we had last met six weeks earlier. "I've been ill," I replied. As far as it went, it was an accurate explanation and I did not elaborate on it. At our previous meeting, with Yehuda Olshansky, Mr Krautkramer had shaken hands on a deal regarding the tamper-proof closure that was to guarantee me over a million and a half dollars over a twenty year period, plus a three percent royalty. Our present meeting was very much a formality: I was merely to sign the written agreement. Having learned the hard way about the weakness and irrelevance of written and sworn documents especially as far as the American judicial system was concerned - I had asked my Dutch patent attorney to investigate how the Bericap company dealt with intellectual property. I laid my attorney's findings on the table in front of Mr Krautkramer. They represented dozens of patents obtained by his company, some of which went back to the beginning of the century. Certain of them even dealt with closures using a latchable bellows system. "I must say I'm very surprised you went to so much trouble," observed Mr Krautkramer. "It must be obvious that we are a very substantial company. There was absolutely no need to investigate us." "I know Bericap is a substantial company," I admitted, "but I wanted to know the extent of your involvement with patents and whether, should a legal dispute arise, I would be faced with individuals who claimed ignorance of what they were getting into or what their responsibilities were." "Look, Bill," replied Krautkramer, nodding understandingly, "it sounds to me as if you've had some bad experiences but let me assure you now that this is not America. In Germany the laws regarding intellectual property are clearly set down in black and white. We do not rely on precedence to arrive at a verdict and our judges certainly do not
333
PRIVATE SCREENING
make the laws up as they go along. In most of Europe, justice and the law are close cousins: in America they are often perfect strangers." I felt reassured. Indeed, the fact that I had given him the exclusivity for marketing the closure in Europe and not the United States was a source of relief to both of us. Mr Krautkramer's distrust of the American judicial system made him extremely wary of doing business there and, for my part, I had no desire to see him get mixed up with CBA and Dennis Lawrence. It was plain to me that as soon as they saw a business opportunity there, Dennis and CBA would lose no time in claiming that closures had always been part of their license, that Bericap was violating an exclusive agreement and that the royalties paid to me should be paid to them. That Dennis personally stood to make no money out of such a claim either way and that he might even be criminally liable for preventing the exploitation of an invention aimed at saving lives would take a poor second place to the enjoyment he would derive from sowing confusion and using the money gained from my previous inventions to finance pointless legal actions. However, not doing business in America was merely a question of not actually sticking our heads in the lion's mouth: it was certainly no guarantee that Dennis would not attempt to interfere in our business. In spite of the restraining order which specifically forbade him from interfering with my European customers, he had been quick to contact each and every one of them as soon as he became aware of their existence. This had very little effect on my present European marketing strategy since I was no longer in the business of issuing licenses for my containers but was handling all aspects of the operation myself. His harassment was only effective in denying me the involvement of major European corporations, with whom the technology might have been used on a wider scale to produce disposable packaging for popular consumer-goods. This was the biggest loss I had incurred since the restraining order had come into force and, together with the fall-out from the SCAT trial which was about to make itself felt, it was to form the basis of my case at the arbitration. I left Mr Krautkramer with the contract signed and a check for twenty-five thousand dollars safely stowed in my pocketbook. There was, as yet, no indication that either of us would regret our decision. When the verdict of the SCAT trial was finally made known, the reasoning behind Judge Hansen's decision could be summed up in a few words: I found the testimony of
Mr Kleneki
patent
434
CRIMES OF PATENT
expert) more credible than that of Mr Charmasson (our patent expert).
Judge Hansen decided that many of the countries for which SCAT had been licensed would not grant patents because of the premature publication of my technical brochure. He therefore demanded that I returned the one hundred and thirty-five thousand dollars that SCAT had advanced me. All in all, I thought this award was very generous in view of the fact that the SCAT partners had sued me for five million dollars. His judgement represented no more than a slap on the wrist and he probably thought that, as I was now the owner of those countries that SCAT had abandoned, I was free to capitalize on them if, indeed, as we had alleged, there was anything worth capitalizing on. What Judge Hansen had overlooked was that thanks to Dennis Lawrence, the doctors and their lawyers the majority of the patents for these countries had now been abandoned and irretrievably lost. Moreover, of the money paid to me by SCAT, nearly one hundred thousand dollars had either been loaned to CBA or spent directly on CBA business mostly to develop the invention that SCAT had claimed was worthless. Nevertheless, the verdict represented a considerable victory for the SCAT partners. They had not been found guilty of fraudulent behaviour in establishing an international network of companies to deprive me of my twenty and thirty percent interest or of soliciting business with American and European customers for whom they had not been licensed. We had certainly supplied proof of this during the trial but had had no time to elaborate on it after everyone's attention had been diverted to the allegations of incitement to commit perjury. I knew why SCAT had brought the action against us in the first place and my suspicions were immediately vindicated: no sooner had Judge Hansen granted his award than they filed a motion to have my United States patents assigned to them and to receive my share of the income from CBA to satisfy the judgement against me. I couldn't blame them for wanting to take possession of my U.S. patents: they were, after all, fully aware of Dennis' incompetence and if they were ever to receive that award they would need to exercise control over the licensing. When I received the faxes informing me of this, I called John McKinley straight away. "I told you that this was what they were after," I said. "I hope you see now why my attending the trial was so necessary. CBA should have thanked me for it."
435
PRIVATE SCREENING
John wasn't surprised either. The entire question had become academic a long time ago. Ironically, SCAT even wanted to get their hands on the Hollow Articles patent that they had claimed was worthless. "As it stands now," I continued, "I have SCAT, Jeims Deimen and the CBA partners all screaming for the same two U.S. patents and I've actually been penalized for trying not to lose possession of what are, after all, Uncle Sam's personal assets." "Penalized is right," agreed John. "You know, I'm beginning to have a pretty low opinion of our government. They don't seem to give a damn about intellectual property and they certainly should. They do absolutely nothing to protect inventors but if they suspect you of some wrongdoing however inadvertent that may be they'll hound you to the end of the earth. My advice to you is keep on inventing: at this rate you'll soon make the 'ten most wanted' list." Frankly, I'd lost any desire to do business in America. I'd seen my livelihood destroyed and my health endangered as various groups of unscrupulous individuals squabbled over the ownership of two inventions apparently oblivious to the fact that there were seven others of n o less importance already granted and a further three pending. Every cent that I had ever earned had gone to supporting the American judicial system. Why had I been foolish enough to waste good money on acquiring the trust of the U.S. government and then compounded my stupidity by injecting further large amounts of cash in order to live up to it? So far, my U.S. patents - while potentially big-earners had not proved to be worth the paper they were written on. If you wanted to attract the greedy and you got a kick out of law-suits, they were a fine investment. The arbitration with CBA had now been scheduled for 9th January 1991 and John and I had been almost entirely occupied with selecting three arbitrators. This became an exceedingly drawn-out process as the CBA attorneys and ourselves could not agree. The American Arbitration Association had suggested about fifteen individuals but on examining their we could not find one who either knew or had dealt with patents, inventions and their related issues. The majority had experience in retailing or the restaurant business and the rest were, or had been, professional lawyers. Finally the Association itself was forced to step in and break the deadlock by appointing arbitrators of its own choice.
436
CRIMES OF PATENT
I had once felt quietly optimistic about the outcome of the arbitration but, try as I might, I could now regard it as nothing more than a forlorn hope. I certainly didn't expect it to give me justice and punish the guilty: for two years now I had always been presumed guilty at the outset and nothing that I said or did subsequently ever altered that verdict. Now the arbitration was something that we had to finish if only because we had started it and sustained the operation for so long. It was a bit like a train that had to reach the end of the track before stopping. "I agree with you a hundred percent, Bill," said John McKinley. "Our justice system is just as you think of it and more. I suppose as a lawyer, I'm a bit like a surgeon: I'm so used to seeing human suffering that it really doesn't bother me any more. I must admit that you managed to find a few chinks in my armor though. Look, to be frank with you, if I were in your present position I'd cut my losses and settle with CBA." "You mean allow Dennis Lawrence to remain as general partner? Do you honestly think he'll work his ass off just to turn eighty percent of the profits over to me?" "Not really, no. He's got a reputation to maintain after all. But now lawyers will be he's under close scrutiny. I can assure you that watching him every step of the way and that don't forget is the same as watching over your interests too." "Well, okay," I said, finally. "You can make the offer to CBA's lawyers but they have to stick to the terms of the original license, the license them the partnership agreement and the restraining order. rights to the Hollow Articles patent as it refers to containers on condition Dennis refrains from interfering with my business outside the United States and outside of that field of application." We certainly expected CBA's lawyers to jump all over this offer. After all, the only thing they had ever wanted was to keep Dennis in power and make use of my second invention. Of these two conditions, it was the first that I had gone against so vehemently but now, to my dismay, I found myself willing to agree to it if it meant being able to hold onto my sanity. I was willing to keep company with the devil. I only needed to get used to the idea.
I returned to my apartment one day to find a fax from Kamal Laraqui in Morocco. It included an article he had received courtesy of Dennis Lawrence. The article was taken from the San Daily Transcript and was entitled Files 1st Case Under Commercial Bribery
437
PRIVATE SCREENING
Legislation'. As soon as I set eyes on it, my heart started thumping. Commercial bribery was news indeed to me. On reflection, it must have been news to everyone: I was, according to the article, the first person in the state to be prosecuted under the new law. So that was why the District Attorney had been in court three days running and had used up all the time pursuing a matter that was irrelevant to the case in hand. He was only interested in setting up his first victim and proving the viability of the new legislation. He was like a hunter who had dug a deep pit, covered it with branches and, after a long, frustrating wait, had finally seen something nosing around it. He had then given it a helping push. Two paragraphs of the article were especially noteworthy. They were the following:
The statute makes i t an offense for a n employee to solicit, accept or agree to accept anything o value from a person f other than the employer, if it is accepted in return for using one's job position for the benefit of the person offering the incentive. The statute also makes it illegal to offer such a bribe, as Touzani is alleged to have done.
If the law made it a felony for me to offer a bribe and Dennis Lawrence to accept it then, as far as our recorded meetings were concerned, we were both equally guilty, for at no point did Dennis refuse anything I asked of him. He might well have argued that the District Attorney was that he didn't intend to keep his side of the deal but I also had people including my lawyer - who knew that I didn't have the slightest intention of honoring my side of the agreement either. What was more, the District Attorney himself must have been well aware of my intentions or why did he not wait until I had kept my twelve o'clock appointment with Dennis before springing his trap and catching me in delicto? Dennis had asked me to sign the documents over and over again without success. Dennis knew that I did not intend to sign them and what Dennis knew the District Attorney also knew. In addition to this, was I really asking Dennis to use his 'job position' for my benefit? The only way in which Dennis' status in CBA had any relevance to the testimony that I'd been supposedly soliciting was
438
CRIMES OF PATENT
that, in his function of go-between and informant, he had been aware of what my partners knew and accepted regarding my running of the business. And in that respect I had merely been asking him for written confirmation of facts that had already been established in their individual depositions. During our taped conversations, Dennis had taken every opportunity much to my puzzlement and annoyance at the time to insist that I was asking him to lie under oath. Had that been true, where did it leave the legally-taken depositions of Dr Thomas and others? So I had not asked Dennis to misuse his job position: I had simply asked him to do his duty as an honest citizen. In fact the more I examined the paragraphs in The San Daily Transcript describing the new 'commercial bribery' law the more obvious it appeared that the law had not been designed for this sort of situation at all. The legislation had clearly been formulated with a view to punishing employees of a company, and those who approached them, for performing some act that was detrimental to that company and therefore beneficial to a rival. The most obvious example of this sort of corporate crime was accepting payment in return for supplying industrial secrets or information regarding future company policy that would be invaluable to a competitor. Probably the legislation was also directed against such abuses as receiving payments in return for allocating contracts or favorable trading arrangements. What it was certainly not designed to do was prevent the majority share-owner of a company from requesting truthful testimony from an employee in return for equity which extended far beyond the area of operations of that company. Someone, somewhere had been looking for a law to catch me with and this one had seemed to suit the situation. The trouble was that it didn't quite fit the circumstances. A third incongruity lay in the proud statement that the new legislation 'finally makes it a violation of criminal law for someone...to ask an employee to do something detrimental to the business'. Over one hundred of my patents were in imminent danger of being lost or abused and nobody would or could ever dispute the fact that I had most to gain, potentially, from the continued success of the business. Why on earth would I, of all people, have contemplated any action that was detrimental to it? My entire reason for going to court in the first place was in order to save it. Sadly, one could not say as much for either my partners or Dennis Lawrence who had all seemed more than happy to destroy the company entirely if it meant getting rid of me. On the other hand, I would have seriously considered giving Dennis
439
PRIVATE SCREENING
Lawrence a fifty percent share in it if I had been at all convinced that he would have stopped pursuing his destructive path. One of the most damning aspects of the allegations made against me was the fact that I had offered Dennis a ten percent equity in return for what I wanted from him. Of course, as everybody knew including Dennis and the D.A. I'd had no intention of honoring the agreement anyway, but the implication persisted that I had intended to give away something that was not mine in the first place and that the whole thing was some sort of unspecified fraudulent and illegal transaction. Now anybody who thinks that any individual in the American business world does anything for altruistic motives is dangerously mistaken. The phrase 'what's in it for me?' is at least as commonly used as 'time is money' or 'business is business'. Since few people can possibly be motivated by self-interest more than Dennis Lawrence, it was imperative that I offered him something he wanted if I were to stand any chance of getting my hands on my international patents. When Jeims Deimen had offered to rescue my patents for me - in return for a sixty percent equity - nobody had raised any questions of fraudulent behavior. In fact Jeims had asked me to have the agreement witnessed by the American consul. And why did the law place such emphasis on the integrity of the business in any case? Why did Uncle Sam seem to think that the welfare of an abstract entity under a registered name was of greater importance than that of its founder and the person who had been entirely responsible for its success? If a business is the sum of its work-force then the judicial system had fired ninety-percent of it at one stroke. If that was not detrimental then what was? The second felony charge of perjury was just as absurd. Had the District Attorney only asked me for my side of the story as he'd had ample time to do - I could have simply handed him a copy of Dr Thomas' deposition in which he acknowledged all of the statements that I had asked Dennis to put in his affidavit and contradicted all the facts that Dennis had lied about. Perhaps the greatest irony of all was that during my meeting with Dennis, unaware that our discussion was being recorded, I had racked my brains to think of any testimony that only he could have given that might have been prejudicial to my partners. I was so desperate to convince him that his testimony was crucial while it was nothing of the sort that if I could have thought of anything that he could have actually lied about I would have had little hesitation in asking him to lie. My only goal was securing the
440
CRIMES OF PATENT
tional patents, a photograph and a video-cassette while giving nothing in return. Now it appeared that nothing short of a miracle could save my business and my life's work. It was the lines 'prosecutors expect him to return to the United States for the San Joaquin civil suit and hope to apprehend him then' that did the most immediate harm to me and all my acquaintances. In the first place, it seemed that this statement was meant to intimidate me and keep me out of the country permanently, thus enabling the District Attorney to win his case simply by virtue of the fact that I was not there to oppose him. If this was what he was counting on then he was gravely mistaken. Secondly, the statement sent a wave of apprehension through my business contacts. For those of my customers who were still in business, the message was simple and direct: steer clear of Bill Touzani. Although none of them thought for a moment that I was actually guilty, they were understandably reluctant to associate their good names with someone who was facing arrest on criminal charges. Not only would their own customers not stand for it but there were, after all, far easier and potentially less risky ways of making a living. I knew that, in the final analysis, I had all the material evidence that I needed to have both charges thrown out of court. The problem did not lie so much in the nature of the charges as in their timing. How could I participate in arbitration, to save what was left of my business and have the partners pay for their wrongdoings, when the sheriff was sitting right outside the door waiting to handcuff me? Would I be able to convince the arbitrators that my continuing business from a jail-cell was still better than having Dennis conduct it on the outside? How could I possibly persuade them that the criminal charges were totally irrelevant to my dispute with the partners? Finally, were law and justice to go hand-in-hand or was commercial pragmatism to carry the day? I had always thought it a reporter's duty to seek unbiased opinion and present both sides of any case whenever possible. However, one reading of this article was enough to convince me that it spelled sudden death for any business venture I might pursue. Why had the reporters not contacted me to hear my side of the story?They had certainly been present at the SCAT trial and since their appearance had coincided with that of the District Attorney it was pretty obvious why they were there. Nor could anyone have claimed, at that point, that as a warrant for my arrest had not yet been the affair was sub
441
PRIVATE SCREENING
taken out. Instead they had relied for their story entirely on the charges Attorney's Office and subsequently filed against me by the San some incoherent utterances I had made in court. The article that journalist Pamela Wilson had finally contributed to the Daily Transcript was a priceless gift delivered free of charge to Dennis Lawrence. It would serve to sanctify the destructive schemes he been pursuing and provide salvation for the doctors and their attorneys. I had been conscious of the power of the media long before: I and my customers had used its advertising and promotional potential to great effect in the past. The first time I experienced its less desirable aspect was when news of the restraining order had first hit the headlines and Lisa had refused me access to Andrew as a result. I had watched and other Turner broadcasting networks since the time when, via Popeet, they had launched the collapsible bottle on its path to national recognition and acceptance. Through its satellite network, millionsof people around the world had come to learn about this new packaging technology and millions of dollars had been generated by direct-response advertising campaigns a significant proportion of which had found its way into the pockets of the TV company. In fact Ted Turner actually autographed one of the A Votre brochures during negotiations with Popeet and had wished me good fortune. During my travels I had been much impressed by live reporting of national and international issues and its unbiased, objective comment. In a way it had kept me in touch with America, and California, whenever I had needed it it had made me feel that little bit less homesick. Now that the media had revealed its ugly side in the form of the San article which showed every sign of destroying my business, I decided to respond in kind. I called the London bureau and was connected to a Mr stein. "I remember Popeet and the collapsible bottles," he said. "Ingenious things, those. So you're the inventor! Well, if you want to advertise with us, you came to the right place." "I wish I did," I said. "That's what I should be discussing with you but what I want to bring to your attention is how my business has been destroyed by a group of medical doctors who have nothing to do with it." "Sorry to hear that, Bill," said Silverstein, sympathetically. "But I must tell you that because of the way the Gulf Crisis is developing we
442
CRIMES OF PATENT
have more than our own share of bad news and worries. What is it you want us to report on anyway?" "Well, in a way it concerns the Gulf Crisis too," I replied. "I want to bring to the attention of the American people that, although the government can mobilize the whole nation, and thirty others, send several armies to the Gulf and spend billions of dollars on saving the assets of the Sabah family, they don't seem to give a damn about their own assets at home especially when it comes to intellectual property." "Well, perhaps you have a point, Bill," said Silverstein, "but surely this is a business matter, wouldn't you say? It doesn't involve crimes or people's lives being at stake." "You're wrong there," I replied. "I've just been branded a criminal and my inventions go a long way beyond merely commercial goals. I have a patent which aims at saving people's lives and it's been prevented from appearing on the market. I bet you lots of people have already died as a direct result of that." "Well in that case it does sound serious," he admitted. tell you what why don't you put together all the information you have and send it to me?" The next day I sent him a Federal Express package. I never heard from him again. The Gulf Crisis had developed into a war and my own conflict had paled into insignificance. The impact of the news article generously faxed to the four corners of the world by Dennis Lawrence - showed itself much sooner than expected and hit at the heart of my business. The Laraqui family refused to send me the improved containers that had been produced and I had installed in Casablanca and of by the same factory that which I was co-owner. I was also notified that they would no longer extend credit to me - not even to sustain the patent applications dealing with the products that they had helped to develop. 'He that toucheth pitch shall be defiled therewith.' The twenty-five thousand dollars I had received from Bericap went directly to offset debit-notes from my patent attorney and John McKinley. There was no longer a short-term income in sight. As things stood, I owed the Laraquis over a hundred thousand dollars and another fifty thousand dollars were owed to advertising companies and other suppliers in Holland. As a result, the whole direct-response program for Europe was in jeopardy. There was not a single employee left to attend to it and payment on the warehouse itself was long overdue. For a second time, the business that I had worked so hard to build up was dying
443
PRIVATE SCREENING
in front of my eyes just at the point where it should have been beginning to bear fruit. As if this development were not devastating enough, I hadn't even begun to wrestle with its full implications before the next piece of bad news arrived. It came in the form of a faxed copy of a letter from the law-firm of Diehl, Steinheimer, Riggio, Haydel and Mordaunt representing Dennis and the doctors - to my attorney John McKinley. The letter, dated 12th October 1990 and signed by Kevin Seibert, contained the long-awaited response to John's settlement offer. By the terms of this counter-proposal I was to give CBA the exclusive ownership of both U.S. patents for any and all applications in the United States. Although I was to retain my rights to the Middle East, Africa and Europe, England was excluded. It was, no doubt, considered to be such a lucrative market that, contrary to mundane considerations of geography and politics, it ceased to be part of the European continent. For some strange reason - probably pure ignorance on their part Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland seemed to be disregarded for this purpose. Furthermore, if patent rights could not be presently obtained for any countries within these territories, CBA would have rights equal to anyone else's (sic) in the world who could capitalize on those markets. Along with several hundred billion other people, presumably. CBA would have exclusive rights to the technology associated with both the United States patents in all other foreign countries. Most importantly of all - but relegated to clause three - I would also have to forfeit my eighty percent partnership interest in CBA and quitclaim my interest in the La Jolla condominium (my home). Amazingly, Seibert and his cohorts considered this an eminently reasonable offer so much so that he expressed the hope that I too would listen to reason with respect to these items. To confirm my opinion that he definitely thought Might equalled Right, he added: We realize that we are asking for more than your client offered, but we are dealing from a position of strength. He also included the following personal observation: I believe it's time Mr. Touzani realized that his future with the collapsible bottle is extremely limited. If he goes to arbitration he will have no future with the invention. As well as these counter-proposals, the letter addressed the future conduct of the case and drewJohn's attention to the fact that I was due My failure to do to make a deposition in California on October so, he stated, would result in his asking the arbitrators to forbid me access to documents, to reject my cross-complaint and to enter a
444
CRIMES OF PATENT
default against me If he is not willing to appear for this deposition, he wrote, he is not going to appear for this arbitration. I could not believe what I was reading. I called John immediately. "Bill," said, "I need to drink five cups of coffee before I can talk to you. Believe me, I'm just as bewildered as you. I always thought their lawyers had acted unethically - ever since the start when they did everything to make you lose your international patent applications. But now wanting to take away your eighty-percent equity amounts to plain, old-fashioncd theft." "It was their intention all along," I replied. "Now you have the proof." "Yes," he agreed. "Only I don't think be using it. Look, Bill. You're up against some pretty powerful crooks and, quite frankly, it's to help you but afraid I can no making me sick. I desperately longer do it. I want out." "You must be kidding,' I said. "You can't abandon me now. We're only a few weeks away from arbitration." "I'm going to send you an estimate of what it would have cost to get you through arbitration," he replied. "I'm afraid that if you don't give us guarantees for those payments we'll have n o option but to withdraw from the case." "Give me an idea of what you're talking about," I asked. "It'll be over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars for sure." "What?" I yelled. "You can't be serious. I paid you sixty thousand past two and I could never than ten thouover sand at a time even then. I almost drove you crazy about it. You know I can't pay you a hundred and fifty thousand - theres no way. You know I think? I you're making me an offer I have to refuse just to off the hook. It's those criminal charges against me, isn't The phone went silent for a few seconds. Were a small law-firm," said John, at last, my partners and I are just starting out and you're too much for us right now. I wish you luck, Bill. What you need right is a miracle." I was now not only broke but extremely depressed. I had tried, against all the odds, to get justice and now it looked as if my case wouldnt even be heared. This was the most serious blow had received so far and it was a direct result the article in the San Diego Daily I still had a Transcript and the charges that had been filed against good case -there were witnesses I could call and documentary evidence truth of my claims - but I had no lawyer, no money, no to support
445
PRIVATE SCREENING
chance of entering California without being arrested and the public and no doubt the judiciary, since they are also members of the public seemed to be already convinced of my guilt. The witches of Salem got fairer treatment than I could expect. In a way, it was all perfectly normal. Certainly the lack of money was. I had lived for so long on the verge of poverty that insecurity had become a way of life. Shortly after I started in business I had pretty well given up on making a fortune out of my bottle and concentrated instead on securing it public acceptance and its niche in the marketplace. A outside pressures built up, I had turned my attention towards s protecting my inventions rather than myself. It was the same situation as a mother protecting her children at the expense of her own life. It was just this sort of flying in the face of common-sensethat now made me shift my attention to the two research programs currently under way. Bericap were developing a closure based on the technology revealed in my patents, the commercial potential of which was astronomical. Yehuda Olshansky, with the Log factory on the kibbutz, and Jacob in Germany were simultaneously developing jerrycans with collapsible necks. Both of these research programs involved far less radical items than a collapsible container - items which could be marketed more easily and for which customer awareness was not a major undertaking. One evening, Yehuda Olshansky called to ask whether I had Daily Transcript article. received my copy of the San "Sure I did," I replied. "And, thanks to Dennis, so did everyone else we know." "I'm sorry, Bill," said Yehuda. "I was there at the SCAT trial and I know there's nothing to these charges but I can tell you that this is one setback you'll never recover from." "You needn't worry, Yehuda," I sighed. "I've decided to retire from business. I'm going to sit myself down in a corner and write my memoirs: there's a good market for science-fiction.Maybe what I have to say kill myself. At least then I might be might help others. Then remembered as a martyr." "Well whatever they think about you in America, I can tell you that in Israel your inventions are extremely popular. In this country you are definitely a hero." join the kibbutz. At least get free food!" "Great!" I said. "I do have excellent news regarding the jerrycan," he continued. "It's just received first prize in Israel as the best packaging design of the year and it will be representing the country in an international
446
CRIMES OF PATENT
to be held in Paris and organized by the World Packaging Organization. As Israel is one of the more technologically advanced countries in the world, I think the can stands a good chance of winning the gold prize. Do you know what that means?" "It'll mean that while I've been rotting in this hole here, several multinational companies have invested billions of dollars only to see my invention and my design walk off with first prize. It sounds like something for 'The Twilight Zone'." "It can happen, Bill. It can happen." Maybe it could happen. Maybe it would happen. Maybe it was too little, too late.
447
24 . YEHUDA
I decided that I now had no alternative to moving out of The Hague and selling my apartment. Living there had become a nonsense in any case: it was no longer centrally located for my business since there was no longer a business to be centrally located for and Fenny and I had been spending almost every evening with her parents near Amsterdam. By now I had washed my hands of everything to do with bottles. My sole remaining interests were the continuing research programs involving the jerrycan, which seemed to be on a winning streak, and the development of the tamper-proof closure. Bericap s next fifteen thousand dollar payment wasn't due for another eight months, to coincide with the extension of their option agreement, and the only thing I could do to try to ensure that I would receive the money was to cross my fingers and hope that Dennis Lawrence would not discover the identity of the company. I was terrified of the day when Krautkramer and his lawyers would read one his infamous faxes and drop the entire project like a hot brick. The sale of my house didn't exactly make me a wealthy man. Once the first and second mortgages were paid off, I was left with the grand sum of five thousand dollars which was just enough to move to a rented house in the town of Uithoorn, not far from Schiphol airport. Our new home was a three-story house with garage. The garage immediately became a storeroom for several hundred bottles, the remainder of which had been abandoned in the warehouse. The whole place cost me one thousand five hundred dollars a month which was a pretty exorbitant price to pay for Holland but sadly normal in view of my non-residential status. Despite the fact that I understood rather less Dutch than the average Orang-Utan understands Serbo Croat I managed to sign the lease without undue difficulty. The crunch came, as crunches will, a few days later.
448
CRIMES OF PATENT
In the United States, and most other western countries for that matter, you can live virtually wherever you like without too many questions being asked. If you decide to move out of New York and take up residence in Chicago, you're under no obligation to inform the authorities about where you're living. In fact it might be true to say that if you have no taxable income, never get sick and the government has no other form of hold on you, you can set up home wherever you desire and the authorities may never know you're there. Such is not the case in Holland. In such a well-ordered country it would be almost unthinkable. A few days after signing the lease, I received some forms to complete and was asked to present myself at the town hall for registration purposes. As soon as she discovered that I had no residential status in the country, the lady dealing with my case handed me another form designed to rectify the situation. As the owner of a Dutch-registered corporation, with all the respect that entailed, this should have been no more than a formality. I filled in the usual section asking me my name, country of origin, date of birth et cetera and moved on to the next block. The first question there referred to any criminal charges that had been made against me. I had seen several forms in the past mostly employment applications which had asked about previous criminal convictions but never criminal charges. I began to panic. "Er...excuse me," I began. "Yes, Mr Touzani?" replied the lady, smiling sweetly. "Is it okay...do you mind if I finish this at home? "Why, no," she said, giving me a look which said very clearly: "A child of five could fill that in in two minutes flat. What's there to think about?" mail it back to you, okay?" s "Okay, Mr Touzani. A you wish." I left the building quickly and by the time I reached the main entrance, the form was a neat ball of crumpled paper nestling in my pocket. The experience had shaken me. I began to wonder whether, now that the local authorities were aware of my presence, they might view any delay in completing and returning the form with suspicion. My failure to discharge the obligation might even be illegal. In the absence of anything constructive to occupy my over-active mind, my fears began to chase each other round in ever tighter circles. Was there nowhere I could go on this earth that was safe for me? Was Dennis
449
PRIVATE SCREENING
Lawrence to hunt me until the end of my days? Maybe I ought to buy a motor home and become a full-time gypsy. Fortunately Fenny provided a solution. "We can buy a place in my name," she said. "Buy a place with what?" "With a government-secured loan. It's a special deal for young people here. You don't need to pay any sort of deposit: you get a hundred percent mortgage straight away. All I need is a job." "What do you mean you need a job? You have a job!" "With Touzani Inc., you mean?" "Sure. I can provide you with a letter declaring your salary." Fenny chuckled: her status as an employee was a long-running joke between us. Officially she had been working for Touzani Inc. for no less than a year but in all that time she had received only one salary check. "Thanks all the same," she said. "But I think get a job." It didn't prove too difficult. Fenny was an efficient and experienced secretary and before long there were job-offers dropping on the doormat. She finally accepted a position with a firm of consultants. The idea of a motor home was still bouncing around in my head however. This was partly because I have a self-confessed weakness for the vehicles in any case, partly because I had planned to attend several major trade-fairs throughout Europe and the motor home would be my hotel-room and cargo-van and partly, I have to admit, as some form of security regarding a place to live. This latter point was not exactly complimentary as far as Fenny was concerned but on the basis of my previous relationships I knew that however happy and secure I felt with her at that point, the whole situation could conceivably change entirely in a very short time. And if that actually happened, what would I do then? Sleep rough in doorways? The major problem in buying such a vehicle remained finance, of course. Fortunately, my credit with my Dutch bank was still good and I knew that they would approve a loan. If, as I expected, I would soon be able to honor the commitment then so much the better for all concerned: if no further money was forthcoming, it would be quite a while before the bank woke up to the fact. Then, one day, I saw a Mercedes motor home in a neighboring parking lot and that did it. I had always had an admiration and respect for the quality and reliability of the make after all, Mercedes Benz did invent the automobile and I had no hesitation in calling the owner and making him an offer. After some haggling, he agreed to sell; the bank approved the loan; I took possession of my Mercedes.
450
CRIMES OF PATENT
So, after six years in a multi-million dollar business, it was back to the Jartran van, or at least to the days when I would stop off at a company between one hospital and the next. Once more, I was on the road with a patent in my briefcase and a few samples in cardboard boxes. As swift as my purchase of the motor home had been, it was still going to take Fenny several weeks to take possession of the apartment she'd decided to buy. This was to be a small but comfortable one-bedroom place in the town of Amstelveen a residential suburb of Amsterdam where Fenny's parents also lived. Until we could move in we would be able to enjoy the relative spaciousness of the house in Uithoorn although actually paying the rent at the end of the month was strictly a theoretical notion. It was at this time that I received a call from Yehuda Olshansky in Israel. "I want to tell you about a friend of mine,' he said. "His name's and he lives in South Africa. He's interested in acquirDanny ing a license." "Look, Yehuda," I replied, sighing inwardly. "I don't license any more. For one thing, there's absolutely no point in it: as soon as he hears about it, Dennis Lawrence will provide any licensee with just enough dirt to turn him off completely. My main concern right now is keeping myself sane. You only have to mention my signing my name on an agreement to send me running into the street and screaming my lungs out." "I can't say I blame you," replied Yehuda. "Ever wondered why I stopped practising law? Because I wanted to preserve my ideal of life, that's why. It may be hiding my head in the sand to believe that the world is a better place than it is, but I'd rather do that than confront its miseries on a daily basis. But about Danny. He's a personal friend of mine. He knows all about your legal problems and he still wants a license. All he needs from you is a copy of your license to CBA declaring that you licensed the partnership for the U.S. only. That's all he'll need to brush off Dennis Lawrence in South Africa. Lawrence can throw around all the restraining orders and newspaper articles he likes but they won't cut much ice with the courts down there." "Well, I must say that's refreshing to hear," I admitted. "In fact it strikes me as pretty ironic that with all the violations of human rights that take place in South Africa, the rights of an inventor are taken so seriously. Maybe I should move there."
451
PRIVATE SCREENING
Danny wasted no time in requesting a meeting in Holland. Indeed, such was his enthusiasm for negotiating a license that he was prepared to fly non-stop from Johannesburg. I went to meet Danny at Schiphol airport and found a small, thin man of about my own age who spoke softly and gesticulated constantly, as most Israelis generally do. The combination of his gesticulations, his small stature, slightly worried air and his soft but more or less uninterrupted speech reminded me strongly of Woody Allen. We did not leave Schiphol immediately: Danny was awaiting the arrival of a friend on an incoming flight from London. I wondered if it was Mia Farrow. As we waited in the airport lounge we started to discuss the potential of my invention in South Africa and the conditions I prescribed for granting a license. "It's very simple," I said. "For forty thousand dollars a year, give you exclusive use of the South African patent as it applies to containers, lamps, the whole shebang. The only stipulation I make is that the fee will be paid regardless of any alleged breaches of contract on my part or of any other outside interference." "That sounds fair enough," Danny replied. "It must be the first contract I've ever heard of where the licensee agrees to pay regardless of any breaches but I understand your position. Yehuda told me about what you've been through. If you have any existing products that I can test-market in South Africa, I'd like to buy them. Apparently you came up with some fancy designs in Morocco." "How would thirty thousand containers grab you?" I asked. "Thirty thousand!" he exclaimed. "I have a warehouse full of the damn things." Danny's friend finally arrived on the London flight. She turned out to be a beautiful Chinese girl. This obviously wasn't his wife, whom he'd just been telling me about, and judging by the way they embraced she wasn't his lawyer either. We got into my car and drove directly to the warehouse at Noordwijkerhout, a small village near the coast. The warehouse had used to be a flower-processing plant and was located in the center of a large field. The owner lived right next door. The building provided ten thousand square feet of storage space minus the small area occupied by two offices constructed inside. Over the past few weeks I'd tried my best to convince myself that the warehouse didn't exist - had never existed. I couldn't bear the thought of thousands of containers, all neatly labelled, packed in colored boxes and stacked on brand-new shelving awaiting a delivery that
452
CRIMES OF PATENT
would never take place. It was even more heart rending to think of the hours of hard work that Fenny, Frank and I had put into painting and decorating the building to make it presentable for our customers. I still had the key and I was just about to insert it in the lock when I was greeted by Mr Jansen, the owner. He could hardly have failed to miss a car crossing the open space in front of the warehouse and had naturally walked out of his front door to pass the time of day with his rarely-seen tenant. I hoped that it was all he was going to say: I still owed him the last month's rent. Fortunately Mr Jansen, like so many Dutchmen, was a pretty tolerant guy. He knew about my legal problems and either because he was easy-going, or hopeful, or philosophical, or all three, he still managed to keep a smile on his face and to avoid unnecessary confrontations. There had been a time, not so very long ago, when he had been extremely impressed with my business and hadn't doubted for a moment that it would prosper and that I would eventually expand into the adjacent buildings. Suddenly, where once I had been able to pay an entire year's rent in advance, I could no longer make a single payment. More shocking still was that this cessation of payments came at the peak of our sales period. Nobody showed up for work. Customers would turn up on Mr doorstep asking where everybody was and at first he was obliged to tell them that he had no idea at all. Some of these people were distributors of household products in England, Germany, France and the Benelux and had flown or driven for many hours for the privilege of knocking at the door of a deserted warehouse in the middle of a field in Noordwijkerhout. Some of them were even carrying the latest issues of magazines in which our products had been prominently featured. "I think they may have gone out of business," Mr Jansen would say. "Gone out of business?" would come an incredulous reply. "But I have their ad right here. This magazine is only a few days old." Mr Jansen would shrug his shoulders. "Did he die in an accident or something?" they would ask. "Who?" "This Touzani guy? Something pretty disastrous must have happened? He couldn't just go bust - not with a product like this!" Mr Jansen accompanied us into the warehouse and Danny began his inspection. Both he and Nancy were very pleased with what they saw. The containers were ready for shipping and retailing and the only
453
PRIVATE SCREENING
thing that needed any organization was transport. The best products that money could buy were available to him at liquidation prices. Danny wanted to buy the lot but finally decided on a standard twenty foot shipping-container which would allow him to take away twenty thousand for nineteen thousand dollars - well below our factory cost. Danny was pleased; Nancy was pleased; I was pleased. Mr Jansen was also pleased: not only was he finally going to get the two thousand dollars I owed him but, far more importantly from his point of view, he was about to take delivery of an empty warehouse that he could lease again without having to dispose of several thousand plastic containers first. If life was not so damned imponderable we would all probably die of despair before we'd gotten out of our teens. I had entirely given up on receiving any money for a long time and had resigned myself to a life of dodging creditors and living off Fenny's salary. I had spent long hours racking my brain to think up some way - any way of making money but I had always come back to the notion that all avenues had been exhausted a long time ago. Then, totally out of the blue comes a complete stranger who offers to buy up my stock! There were such things as fairy-godmothers. I wondered if they all looked like Woody Allen. There were so many things I would have liked to have done with nineteen thousand dollars but only one thing that I could do. Once Mr Jansen had been paid off, almost the entire balance would have to go to my patent attorneys in The Hague to pay my outstanding bills and save my remaining patents from abandonment. That would give me another two or three months grace-period before other annuity fees became due. Fenny viewed my plans with alarm. "I can't believe you, Bill," she said. "I just can't believe you! We can't pay the rent on our house in Uithoorn. We can't even pay for food! And what do you do with your money when you finally get it? It all goes to salvaging some stupid patents that have never been anything else but a millstone round our necks. You need your head looking at - you really do!" I nodded my understanding. "One day, Fen, when we have children and you have to choose between me and yourself and them, you'll understand how I feel." Fenny blew her cheeks out in exasperation. "Well that's all very noble, Bill, but don't you think enough is enough?"
454
CRIMES OF PATENT
"It'll only be enough when I really can't go any further," I replied. "Until then I have to follow my feelings rather than logic."
I had finally got a faxed message from the American Arbitration Association informing me that they had accepted John McKinley's me politely if I was going to be withdrawal from the case and able to make the arbitration scheduled for January 9th less than six weeks away. Clearly I was expected to hire another attorney, bring him thoroughly up to date and have him present for the hearings. Even in the event of my coming across some legal super-hero capable of mastering the complexities of the case at a single sitting, the arbitrators were careful not to advise me as to what I should use for money. If the arbitrators were curious as to whether I would attend the lawyer, Kevin Siebert, objected to my presence there hearings, under any circumstances. He argued that as I had not thought fit to fly to California to make a deposition, I had therefore forfeited my right to take part in the proceedings. He needn't have lost sleep over it: not only had I had no money to fly to California, I had no money to fly out for the hearings either. I could not afford to retain legal counsel and in the unlikely event that any lawyer would have taken my case on a contingency basis he would still have had to ask for several months postponement. The only thing I could possibly do under the circumstances was to write to the arbitrators directly. I faxed them the following letter.
the past two years to get m y case in front of you and get some justice done. I cannot believe you allowed m y attorney to withdraw on the eve of the hearings and I have no alternative but to ask for a six months postponement.
Around this time, Fenny's brother Peter was going through a divorce, the settlement procedures for which were being handled by a government-paid attorney. Although I was by no means certain that Mr De Gooijer would know a great deal about American arbitrations, I was badly in need of some sort of professional advice and I took the liberty of accompanying Peter to one of his consultations. De Gooijer was a pleasant, gray-haired man in his early forties. Divorce cases obviously represented his bread-and-butter work and, although he struck me as conscientious and efficient, it was fairly clear
I have spent over one hundred thousand dollars in
455
PRIVATE SCREENING
that he didn't view that sort of task as particularly interesting. On the other hand, he was curious about my relationship with Peter's sister and about my business. I promised to drop off some leaflets and a copy Bouteille book. I wasn't as concerned with satisfying his of the curiosity as with impressing him and persuading him that he could bill me later rather than in advance. I needn't have worried, of course. All of my Dutch business relations had been more than willing to bill me retrospectively. My bank had even allowed me to debit my account by thousands of dollars at a time. Had it refused - and there had been every reason why it should have refused I would not have been able to pay even half of the arbitrators' fees. Once Peter's business had been concluded, I asked De Gooijer for an appointment. "Certainly you can have one," he replied. "But I do have time now. What do you want to discuss?" It was already six o'clock in the evening but that didn't seem to bother him. "I'd like you to send a letter to the American Arbitration Association formally requesting a six month postponement of the hearing," I said. "I need time to retain a counsel and familiarize him with the facts of the case. All I want is an official document and someone to witness that it's been sent." I continued by telling him a little more about the case. "That's no problem," said De Gooijer. "But I should warn you that it means rescheduling the plans of three arbitrators who almost certainly have their own businesses, not to mention other commitments. Considering how near the arbitration is, it's highly unlikely that a request for postponement will be approved." "Well I hope you're replied, "because if the hearings go ahead as scheduled they're just going to have to make do without me." "Either that," I added with a smile, "or I'd have to put my case over the phone." I got up to leave. "Over the phone," repeated De Gooijer. "Well that would certainly be a first." "There've been lots of firsts where I come from," I said. "One more won't make much difference." De Gooijer, as is usual in Holland, accompanied me to the door even though it meant negotiating a treacherous spiral staircase.
456
CRIMES OF PATENT
"As a matter of interest," I said, as I shook his hand, "just what is your legal specialty?" De Gooijer smiled. "Contract and criminal law." "That's an odd combination," I said. "I'd never have thought the two went together." "Mr Touzani, you'd be surprised how close the two of them are."
I had known for some time that there wasn't much of anything to keep me in Holland, or even in Europe for that matter. The majority of my new inventions had initially been filed in the United States since, in spite of the low opinion I had formed regarding the American handling of intellectual property, it still remained the cheapest and most convenient place to acquire a priority date for my filings. A priority date, I should add, is the date that an invention is registered with a recognized patent office and which triggers the one-year grace period for filing the invention elsewhere. I was certainly not going to write up an invention in Dutch and file it with the Dutch patent office in order to have the same grace period. There was more to it than that. In spite of my enforced exile, I still regarded America as my home. It was where my son lived and it was where I had intended to live out the rest of my days. Filing my inventions in the United States brought with it the added advantage that when I returned I could interest investors and develop them fully. One day there might be a company called Collapsible Closure of America or Expandable Lamp of America. One thing was sure, though: I would never form a partnership with doctors. Their ethical standards were clearly far too high for judges and way out of sight of the average inventor. The most immediate problem about returning to the States was the small matter of the arrest warrant that had been taken out against me. Unless I could post a fifty thousand dollar bail-bond, I would be condemned to rot in jail until a trial had been scheduled. Not that jail frightened me so very much: compared with what I had gone through lately it would be a haven of security where all expenses were picked up by the American taxpayer.The sort of freedom that I was enjoying was not freedom at all as far as I was concerned. I was certainly at liberty to walk the streets but I had no official status in Holland, no source of income, no control over my own destiny and, most importantly, no
457
PRIVATE SCREENING
dreams that could be realisticallyachieved. I didn't even speak the language. As things stood right then, I would certainly have attended the arbitration on January 9th if I'd had the money to pay for my planeticket and my stay in California. However, it was not as if my business in Europe was entirely defunct: in Germany Jacobs GmbH had invested over a hundred thousand dollars in developing motor-oil jerrycans with expandable necks - I called them 'turtleneck' containers; I had even produced some marketing material for European customers featuring the jerrycans produced by Yehuda in Israel. I could certainly not abandon Jacobs: our revolutionary jerrycan had just won the gold star award from the World Packaging Organization for the year 1990. Yehuda had called me especially to announce our victory in the competition. Together we had carried off the most prestigious prize in the world of packaging and everything had been done on a budget that the multinationals would have found not only insufficient but downright laughable. I thanked God that Dennis Lawrence had been unaware of our developments. The jerrycan would now bear the official award seal which would boost its acceptance and popularity with industry and consumer alike. It would have far more value than a simple patent number: it would prove that our design and our technology had stood alongside the best that the world had to offer and had come out on top. I should have been ecstatic at the news but I was not. My capacity for extremes of joy or sadness seemed to have been blunted beyond repair. Any news, good or bad, broke against a wall of numbness. In the past I had always greeted my successes with restraint mainly because I had so much to do and always felt that I had so little to celebrate. Now I had very little to do, every reason to celebrate and absolutely no desire to do so. I felt like someone with one foot already firmly planted in the grave who is told that he's either won a five million dollar lottery or has to to spend his last remaining days in jail - both extremes were equally irrelevant. Then, one evening, I got a call from Clair Costanzo - one of the businessmen that I had first met in Omar Laraqui's office in the Tour Montparnasse. I had seen him a few months earlier when he had been making one of his regular pilgrimages to Amsterdam's red-light district. There had been a time when I'd had hopes that Costanzo would distribute my Double Flex Double Fresh line containers
458
CRIMES OF PATENT
in the French market but the Laraquis, or rather their Paris lawyer, had run a check on him only to find that his CG Distribution company was a two-bit operation that was listed in none of the French corporate directories and that Clair was essentially a cheap wheeler-dealer. That had been enough to make me keep a low profile as far as he was concerned. When we had briefly met in Holland later, he didn't seem to bear me any ill-will for having withdrawn from contact and I assumed that he was used to this sort of reaction. "Is this a social call, Clair? Or is there something you want from me?" I asked. "I have some exciting news," he began. "I've lined up a major deal with France's biggest supermarket chain. is willing to distribute your Double Flex Double Fresh line. We're talking about over a million containers as a first order. We have to talk, Bill. I need a licensing agreement from you." Now in the past, Clair had sent several licensing agreements for my signature which had all run to many pages of incomprehensible French legal jargon. That in itself had been enough to dissuade me from pursuing the matter any further. A far as I was concerned, the s only agreement I would ever sign would be written in plain English he could look for translators himself. "Well, that sounds promising," I replied guardedly. "The problem is that my business relations with the Laraquis have been severed and I can no longer acquire containers unless I pay for them C.O.D.. I assume you don't want to do business with them directly." There was a brief pause. "You assume right," he said. "But what about the stock you have in Holland?" in Johannesburg." "Where?" "Johannesburg. It's a town in South Africa." "Uh-huh. And you've got no other sources?" "Well," I said, "your only other alternative would be to try my licensee in Israel." "Sounds okay to me," said Clair. "In fact I'm so convinced that the bottle has a bright future in France that I'm more than willing to go to Israel and place an order on the spot." "Are you indeed?" I replied. "It sounds as if you really mean business, Clair. And to think I always thought that you drove all the way from Marseille to Amsterdam because you couldn't afford the air-fare!"
459
PRIVATE SCREENING
"You were wrong," said Clair, clearly affronted by my suggestion. "And to prove it 1'11 pay you a trip to Israel too." "And my girlfriend?" I asked, trying my luck. "And your girlfriend." I was sorely tempted to keep adding to the list to see at what point he'd refuse but I decided it might be better to play it straight. "That's very nice of you," I said. "But accept only on condition that you declare it all as a company expense. You're too thin to make a good Santa Claus." On November 7th 1990 we arrived at Orly airport in Paris, left the check-in car in the long-term parking-lot and proceeded to the El counter. I didn't have to ask directions to find it - it was like an armed camp. There were policemen posted conspicuously at every vantage point, all of whom sported jaunty forage-caps, blue flak-jackets and sub-machine guns. It was some comfort to know that neither Fenny nor I looked particularly Middle-Eastern. In fact I could, and have, passed as an Israeli not surprisingly when you consider my family's Jewish background. The security agents had a simple but nonetheless very effective means of weeding out the Jews from the goys however: they spoke to everyone in Hebrew first. As no self-respecting Jew would be without some knowledge of the language, however rudimentary, they immediately knew which travelers merited more serious examination. I was no exception. Sure enough, a man in plain clothes approached me and delivered a broadside of guttural consonants. I considered replying "Eleven o'clock" or "I'm sorry. I don't smoke" but thought better of it and confined myself to "I don't speak Hebrew." "What do you have in your bag, sir?" he asked in English. "A few plastic bottles, some brochures and my girlfriend's make-up case," I replied. Bouteille I'd also taken the precaution of bringing a copy of which bore a picture of me on the cover. I had expected that as soon as they saw from my American passport that I was born in Morocco, Passport Control would spend hours scrutinizing every stamp to see if I had recently visited Libya or Iraq, run a computer check to see if I was on their terrorist list and examined my family history as far back as my great-great-grandfather. I knew, of course, that I had never visited any country that posed a real threat to the integrity of the state of Israel but I was not so sure about the computer check: by now, I was aware that
460
CRIMES OF PATENT
Dennis Lawrence was capable of just about anything and it wouldn't have come as a great surprise if I'd been positively identified as Carlos the Jackal whether he were actually dead or not. It was at this point that Clair the Corsican hove into view accompanied by Serge and his Georgian smile. "That's just great," I thought. "Now we really do look like a Palestinian hit-squad." We shook hands in the French fashion. "It's pretty busy here," I observed. "We're going to be packed like sardines. What's so special about this flight that makes it so crowded?" "It's just a regular charter," replied Serge airily. "They're always this crowded." "Because they offer cheap fares," I said icily. "Right you are, Bill," said Serge. "Two thousand franks return." "No wonder you guys were so generous." A basic security precaution employed by El was a vetting system before check-in. Most people, including us, had to face a one hour wait before the interviewer asked them a few questions and filled in a form. They would then proceed to the check-in desk. Predictably the interviewer spent twice as long over my questions. He then disappeared into an office. So far this had all gone more or less as I had expected. The computer would show that I was not an international terrorist, that I had never done any harm to Israel or Israelis and that I was on a routine business-trip. After a few minutes, the interviewer returned, asked me for more information about my business - again very much as I had expected and disappeared again with the library that I had put in his hands. He returned with another man, clearly his superior, who asked me to accompany him to a separate area behind the counter to ask me further details about the nature of my business and where, exactly, Israel fitted into it. "I'm an inventor," I replied. "I filed a patent in Israel, licensed my invention to an Israeli and I think that after two years it's about time I paid him a visit." "Is that so, Mr Touzani," said the security man. "Frankly, I can't at all understand why you would bother filing a patent in Israel in the first place but I suppose that's your business." "Damned right," I thought. "Secondly I don't really understand why a successful and wealthy businessman like yourself, who could surely afford to charter his own
461
PRIVATE SCREENING
jet, would willingly cram himself into a charter-flight just to save a few dollars." I gave vent to a loud sigh. "Look," I said. "I can see your point entirely but if I explained to you exactly how I came to be here I'd still be doing it at this time tomorrow." Finally I seemed to satisfy him but it took two hours from joining the queue at check-in before Fenny and I were able to step onto the plane. After our long drive from Amsterdam to Paris, we were now heartily wishing that we'd stayed at home. If I'd been picked up by the FBI or the DEA, I might have expected a long and painful grilling but I certainly didn't think the reward of sitting in a cramped seat and eating cold food packaged in plastic was worth the ordeal that I'd just been through. What was certain was that our trip to Israel was going to be unforgettable to put it mildly. Once we'd been in the air for an hour or so, I began to relax and take stock of the people around me. Judging by the other passengers, Israel was just as much of a melting pot as the United States. Most races under the sun seemed to have their representative there, the only extraordinary feature being the relatively high proportion of orthodox Jews. A little later I noticed a couple of men in regular clothes walking up the aisle and asking questions of the other passengers. "Not another security check!" I muttered to Fenny. "Isn't it a bit late to put someone off the plane now?" "They don't look like security men," Fenny replied. "Maybe someone's lost a child." It wasn't long before one of the men stopped at our row and addressed me. "I'm sorry. I don't speak Hebrew," I said. "Then it's okay, sir. Forget it," replied the man and moved on down the plane. I must have looked as mystified as I felt since I noticed that the guy sitting across the aisle from me was smiling. "What did he want?" I asked. "He was asking if you wanted to go to the back of the plane and pray with them," he answered. "Obviously if you don't understand Hebrew, you're not Jewish and therefore no amount of praying would do you any good." "I see," I said.
462
CRIMES OF PATENT
"They need at least ten people to perform the prayer," he added. "Well that shouldn't pose much of a problem," I said. "On this plane they'll probably have to turn down offers." Behind us, I could see that the prayer was already under way. About a dozen people were packed into the small space in front of the toilets and were rocking back and forth with their hands together. "It's certainly a strange place to pray," said Fenny. "It sure is," I agreed. "Maybe they know something we don't know. Let's just hope it's only about the plumbing." "Have you noticed how the plane's flying tail-down now?" asked Clair. "Maybe we ought to organize a prayer at the front to level it up a bit." I was expecting further difficulties at Passport Control in Israel but, as it turned out, my fears were unfounded. The uniformed girl at Ben Gurion airport scanned my passport briefly and lifted her rubber stamp to bring it down on an empty space. "Wait!" I said quickly. She looked up at me. "You don't want me to stamp your passport?"she asked. "I'd rather you didn't," I replied. She smiled understandingly and handed me a small slip of paper. I filled in the details, she stamped it and stuck it in my passport. "It'll be taken out when you leave the country," she said, and handed my passport back to me. This was routine procedure for her. One of the consequences of the ongoing feud between Israel and the Arab states is that few visitors particularly those also doing business in the Arab world - want visible evidence that they have been to Israel. Outside the airport, Yehuda spotted us in the crowd and we were soon speeding downtown in his Toyota. We dropped off Clair and Serge at the Tel Aviv and proceeded on to apartment where Fenny and I were to be his guests. Sharon, his fiancee, was awaiting our arrival and had prepared some delicious welcoming snacks but we were far too tired to do them justice and, with many apologies, we retired early to bed. Our stay in Israel was to last only three days and, in spite of being still exhausted from our journey, Fenny and I were up and about early the following morning. We were expected at the kibbutz in northern
463
PRIVATE SCREENING
Israel where the plastics factory was located and according to Yehuda we had a long drive ahead. "How long?" I asked him over breakfast. "About an hour and a half," he replied. "You call that long?" I said. "In America you can drive for ninety minutes just to catch a movie." "It's long for here," said Yehuda. "You can cross the country east to west in less than an hour." "Is that with or without the occupied territories?" I asked. "Without them." "And how far are we from Jerusalem?" "Not far. Why? Want to go there?" "I'd like to visit it before we go back," I said. "Do you think we can manage that?" "Sure," said Yehuda. "We can go there direct from the kibbutz if you like. It'll take about two hours." "But I guess we'll have to come back through Tel Aviv anyway, huh?" "That would add another hour to the journey. We'll cut through the occupied territories instead." "I hope we won't," Sharon interjected. "It's too dangerous, da. Let's come back here first." "Aw, come on, Sharon!" snorted Yehuda. "The road's heavily have my gun with me." patrolled! Plus As they continued to argue, Fenny and I swapped glances. Were we dreaming? Was this conversation really happening? It was like being back in the Wild West. "Do you usually drive around armed?" Fenny asked Yehuda. "Not always," he laughed. "At least not when I go out to pick up the groceries. The occupied territoriesare a different matter though. It's better to be safe than sorry." "I had no idea it was as bad as that here," said Fenny. "I'm sure you didn't," said Yehuda. "You must find it very strange. On the other hand I found it strange in Holland. Everybody seemed so badly informed about world events. Here in Israel you can buy a morning, lunch and evening paper and you'd damn well better read it too. Your life might depend on it. Especially now." "The Gulf Crisis, you mean?" Yehuda nodded. "Is it all worth it?" I asked. "Is what worth it?"
464
CRIMES OF PATENT
"Adding new pieces of territory for security purposes? If you ask me, it's all pretty meaningless when you have Scud missiles aimed at the center of Tel Aviv." "You're right," Yehuda agreed. "In the past, it seemed a good idea to have some sort of buffer-zone between us and our enemies but now I'm not so sure about it. The basic problem remains the same though: Jews and Arabs just cannot live together in the same territory. It's like trying to mix oil and water." "Who are you kidding, Yehuda?" I said. "I'm an Arab: you're a Jew. I'm staying in your place here and you've stayed with me in Holland. I'd be proud to have you as a neighbor. Can you honestly say any different?" Yehuda lowered his head in embarrassment. "No," he said simply. "You're perfectly right. And I'm absolutely wrong." Before leaving for the kibbutz, our first task that morning was to pick up Serge and Clair from the Tel Aviv Hilton They weren't there. Instead, there was a note awaiting us which informed us that they had moved out and were staying at a cheap hotel further down the street. "What's with these guys?" asked Yehuda, as we got back into his car. "Why leave a five star hotel to go to a two star hotel? Are you sure they really intend to place an order while they're here?" "Believe it when you see it," I replied. "As far as Fenny and I are concerned, the chief reason why we're here is to see you, the kibbutz and Israel. Anything else will be pure profit." We picked up the two Frenchies and headed north towards the Golan Heights. Serge and Clair offered no explanation for their move and the rest of us didn't pursue the matter. The Kibbutz Ashdod Ya'acov Ichud was an innocent-looking group of one story and multi-story buildings in the northern part of the Jordan Valley. I was surprised to hear that it was over a hundred years old, which must have made it one of the oldest communities of its type in the world. Although the basic philosophy of kibbutzim is to be selfreliant and self-sufficient, the Ashod Ya'acov Ichud had recently decided to trade with the outside world and had set up it own plastics factory which went under the somewhat prosaic name of Log Plastic Products. The Log factory was undoubtedly the pride of the community and their ambassador around the world. The plant had been originally
465
PRIVATE SCREENING
"If you have any further problems and have to use the police in any way, just show them one of these cards and tell them you know me. I think you'll find it makes a difference." I was certain it would: I had heard of Commissioner Manjra before Kamal had told me about him and I was sure that the mere mention of his name would give any police officer a nasty shake. However, just as I was on the point of leaving his office, it was me that was shaken. I noticed a familiar object lying on the desk next to his personal computer: it was a third proof-copy of my book. I stared at it in surprise for a few seconds and then transferred my gaze to jra. He gave the merest hint of a smile. "Good day, Mr Touzani," he said. I returned home to find a brand new Peugeot 309 awaiting me. I decided to use it that evening to take Fenny to the Hyatt Hotel where Americain and watch CNN on TV. we could relax in the After leaving the Hyatt, we walked across the street to look at some craft stores - Fenny wanted to buy some souvenirs to take home. We were strolling up and down, looking in the shop-windows, when I became aware of a dark figure behind me. I didn't pay too much attention at first even when he started speaking in a loud voice but suddenly Fenny pulled me closer. "Isn't that guy talking to you?" she said. "I don't know," I replied. "Is he?" He was. In fact he was doing more than talking: he was shouting at me in Arabic and what he was shouting did not make particularly nice listening. At first I was confused. How did this guy know I was Moroccan anyway? I don't look particularlyMoroccan and even less so standing outside the Hyatt Hotel with a blonde on my arm. If his intention was to hustle tourists, why wasn't he speaking in French or English? Everyone in the world knows at least one English insult. The man began to draw closer and changed his shouting from insulting to downright obscene. As we edged away from him he reached out and made a grab for Fenny's backside. Immediately I seized him by the neck. "You Jewish son-of-a-bitch he screamed in Arabic. get you, you filthy Jewish bastard!" "Not if I get you first," I answered and dragged him off, struggling, to the end of the street where I'd seen a policeman. "I want this man put under arrest," I said, taking one of Commission Manjra's cards and showing it to the cop. The effect was electric.
466
CRIMES OF PATENT
income. It's a bit difficult to party when you don't have any money, right? Really the only reward we get is being involved in exciting projects like yours - and yours, I might add, is one of the biggest. There are hundreds of people living here and there isn't one of them except an odd few who can't talk yet who doesn't know about your bottles." It was gratifying to hear this and, for the first time, I became aware of dozens of fellow diners staring at me. "I seem to be a center of attention round here," I observed quietly. "Don't sound so surprised," replied David. "To be honest any stranger tends to get the treatment but in your case most folks know who you are already." Now that he'd mentioned it, I did recognize several of the people who were looking in my direction: I had met them before at various European trade-fairs. I gave one or two of them a friendly wave and was acknowledged by a regiment of uplifted forks. David was a highly skilled plastics technician was had lived and worked in Boston, Massachusetts until the day when, in the throes of some unspecified mid-life crisis, he had sold his house and belongings and returned to the kibbutz to which, following the usual practice, he had donated every last cent. His only remaining ambition was to live with people he cared about and who cared about him. As far as he was concerned, no other material benefit in the world was worth that simple fact. "Frankly," I said, "I think I should join you all here. You wouldn't believe how tired I am of the outside world. I don't think I'd bring in much profit to you, though: the only thing I possess is the shirt on my back." I sneaked a second look at it just to make sure. "Yep, it's mine all right." "Seriously though," said David, laughing, "you could always try it out. We have facilities for tourists here. You're welcome to come and stay any time you like." "Naw, I can't afford to do that," I replied. "I might never leave." Our drive south to Jerusalem cut straight through the heart of occupied Jordan. As we swept past rows of camouflaged armored vehicles, radar installations and artillery guns pointing east, I had to confess to feeling a little nervous. "Are you sure this route is safe?" I asked Yehuda.
467
PRIVATE SCREENING
"No," he replied. "At least, let's put it this way: I don't think your travel insurance would pay out if anything happened. Mind you, you have to admit we have quite a bit of protection." In spite of the dangers, I was surprised to see so many hitch-hikers on the road. Admittedly most of them were armed and in uniform but that only served to make them a clearer target. Hitch-hiking in Israel has a respectability that is totally absent in America. No matter where you are - whether in downtown Tel Aviv or the wastes of the Negev you will see hitchers of all types thumbing a lift. Not only is it considered perfectly acceptable to pick them up, it is even commendable. After all, in the case of army personnel, they are risking their lives for your benefit. In America, where an army uniform can be picked up in just about any corner store, nobody would dream of stopping particularly if they had any suspicion that the hitcher was armed. We entered Jerusalem from the east, climbing through steep, rocky hills and passing tiny Arab villages. Once inside the city limits, it wasn't difficult to see where the Arab sector ended and the Jewish one began. B this time it was already late in the afternoon and we were all y too tired and too pressed for time to drive around town. Instead, Yehuda decided to take us directly to the old part of the city where most of the religious and historical buildings were located. As we passed beyond the city walls, it was not only easy to see where the Arabs lived but who they were. While most of the Jews seemed to be lively, outgoing characters who were always busy with one thing or another, the Arabs tended to hang around in small groups, quietly playing cards and watching the tourists come and go. The old city was built to much the same pattern as the casbahs of North Africa. Basically it consisted of a maze of narrow streets that had been designed around the donkey rather than the automobile and which hosted a bewildering array of tiny shops some of which extended no more than a foot into the wall and most of which were a euphemistic name for a tawdry collection of cassette-tapes and sunglasses. There was something about the place that was not quite right, however. The streets should have been swarming with people but, in fact, they were almost totally deserted. The few people who were out and about looked scared and they scurried rather than walked. We had come in the middle of the intefada - the general strike called by the Palestinians. All the Arab-owned shops were closed to protest the Israeli occupation and the conditions imposed on them.
468
CRIMES OF PATENT
It struck me, as a mere tourist, that if the strike was causing anybody any harm, it was mostly affecting the Arabs themselves. Turning a prosperous commercial district into a ghost-town might well have been a very visible though passive form of protest but the only way it could possibly have damaged the Israeli authorities was by denying them money from taxes. If there was a logic to the strike, it was definitely well-hidden from me. We hadn't been walking for very long when it became quite apparent from the behavior of Yehuda and Sharon that we were well and truly lost. This didn't make any of us feel comfortable and Clair, in particular, looked downright scared. "At least you look like an Arab," he said, nervously. "The rest of us aren't so lucky." "That's a weird definition of luck," I replied. "Especially these days." Finally a man began to follow us. None of us could help noticing him and when he realized that he'd been detected he hurried past us and mounted some stairs. He turned and watched us. As we approached, he descended again and came towards us. He must have been in his thirties and was smartly dressed in sports-clothes. "It looks like you're lost," he said accurately in English. "Maybe I can help you. What are you looking for?" We were lost and we did need help but immediately Yehuda rounded on the poor guy and addressed him in Hebrew. Of course I had no idea of what he actually said but the message was clear and simple: 'these others here might be tourists but I'm not I'm the law around here.' The Palestinian's attitude changed straight away. Whereas a few seconds earlier he had been polite and dignified, he now appeared abjectly humble. He no longer looked at us directly but fixed his eyes on the ground as he acknowledged Yehuda's questions. His voice, which had once been self-confident, was now almost a whisper. "So this is what it's like to be occupied," I thought. Yehuda eventually turned back to face the rest of us. He told us that the man owned a shop a few yards away and that he was willing to open it for us if we wished to purchase souvenirs. Frankly, the best souvenir I could have imagined right then would have been leaving Jerusalem with every part of my body intact but we agreed and followed the man at a discreet distance. We passed so many metal shutters that the place looked more like a battleship than a street. It was also very difficult to look discreet and casual when we had to keep up
469
PRIVATE SCREENING
with the fast pace set by the extremely nervous man in front of us. Finally he gave a quick glance to right and left, rushed up to a small door and ushered us into the gloom inside. "He's afraid of being seen by his neighbors," muttered Yehuda, as the electric light clicked on. "I'd never have guessed," I replied drily. "If he's seen breaching the strike order, he becomes a fair target for reprisals." "Well, I suppose it's his choice. Just as long as the reprisals don't happen with us in here." I had a disturbing vision of staring down the barrel of a Palestinian AK-47 and attempting to explain that we were not Zionists and that any impression that we might have been intending to contribute to the Israeli economy was purely accidental. I thought it best to conclude our business as quickly as possible and get the hell out of there. "Do you have any larger plates than these?" I asked the shopkeeper in fractured Arabic. He was clearly stunned. "Where are you from?" he asked. "America. But I was born in Morocco." "Ah! Morocco! Beautiful country! King Hassan is a very good man!' A few months previously, it might have been helpful to have admitted my Moroccan background but now not only were we breaking the intefada but Morocco and Egypt were the only Arab countries that had sent a military contingent to defend the Gulf states against Hussein much to the Palestinians' dismay. "Now I've well and truly put my foot in it," I thought. "I'll be lucky to get out of here alive." But my fears turned out to be unnecessary. Our host did not place an immediate call to the local branch of the P.L.O. but busied himself preparing tea for us in a typical and time-honored display of Arab hospitality. As I sipped it and examined his stock of souvenirs, it was sobering to reflect that, although the man obviously bore me no ill-will for being Moroccan, he would certainly have substituted rat-poison for sugar had he known that we had just been guests at a kibbutz. After all, the origin of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict was not a matter of race, religion or politics but as most conflicts are - a simple question of land and whom it belongs to. In the western world, land changes hands with such dizzying rapidity that we've just about lost that deep, almost
470
CRIMES OF PATENT
religious, pride of ownership but in the Middle East it is still very much alive and disputes over land still tend to be settled in blood rather than through lawyers. Our trip to Israel will reside in my memory forever. Before it, I had shared many of the opinions that one commonly hears or reads regarding that country and its relations with its neighbors. Such opinions, however, are always formed from the perspective of a safe distance and however much they may vary according to the circumstances of the day they tend to remain simplistic rationalizations unsubtle variations on the themes of right and wrong, fair and unfair, just and unjust. First hand experience annihilates these commonplace perceptions. The real points at issue are suddenly seen to be as diverse as the individual personalities caught up in the drama and sharing their daily life becomes a question of constant revaluation, all-pervading tensions and conflicting emotions. Nothing highlighted such feelings more than waking up in Holland, listening to the vacuous babble of radio deejays and realizing that the most excitement that one's fellow citizens extracted from their lives came mainly in the form of football matches and summer holidays. The trip to Israel had been a great success. A mark of the friendship and trust that had been established between the Log team and myself was our decision to share expenses at the Salon de lEmballage in Paris - the largest packaging show of 1990 which was to take place in the first week of December, one month after our return. The month passed quickly and soon Fenny and I were loading hundreds of containers into the motor home and heading south towards the Palais de lExposition near Charles de Gaulle airport. The containers were intended as give-aways to enable potential customers to understand the basic concept of the locking bellows; our real emphasis was to be on the award-winning expandable spout concept. The surprise of the show came in the form of Clair Costanzo and his CG Distribution company who had also decided to exhibit. In the first place, I was surprised to see him there at all: CG Distribution existed to market finished products wholesale and a packaging fair was hardly appropriate to that. Nonetheless, Clair's booth, in spite of its modest dimensions, was easily the most visible and the most elegant.
471
PRIVATE SCREENING
I had mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, such an attractive display could only be good publicity but, on the other, my business relations with Clair were not yet on a formal footing. "You didn't tell me you were coming here to sell my bottles," I said. "I don't recall authorizing you to display them and you still don't have a single agreement from me for dealing in these containers." "I'm sorry, Bill," said Clair. "This was all done more or less on impulse and I didn't have time to consult you." "I just hope it's not a waste of money," I continued. "As far as I know, your only source of containers is the Log factory in Israel. Unless you want to deal with the Laraquis, that is which I rather doubt." "I would have liked to deal with them," replied Clair. "Morocco would be a much more convenient source than Israel but unfortunately the Laraquis seem to hate my guts. They have it firmly fixed in their minds that I'm some sort of crook." "Indeed they do," I agreed. tell you what, Clair: give you a hand-written authorization to exhibit here, just to make it all legal. But in the future, and unless you want me to call you a crook too, you'd better ask permission first. Or at least sign the licensing agreement we negotiated." "That's just it, you see," said Clair. "I figured this show would allow me to evaluate potential and judge the fairness of the royalty you're asking me for. I promise you there'll be an agreement before the end of the year."
So great had been the interest shown in our products over the three days of the Paris show that there was little doubt in my mind that the European operation was going to be hugely successful. I returned to Amsterdam to a phone that wouldn't stop ringing and a fax machine that wouldn't stop running. Virtually the only time I left the house was to meet another visiting customer. The arbitration was now no more than a few days away and I should have been devoting all my time to preparing for it. On the other hand, my business was once again at a critical point and I told myself that if any work really deserved my attention, it was this. One of the callers was again Clair Costanzo. He too had been knocked out by our success in Paris and he wanted me to fly down to Marseille, at his expense, and meet his business partners.
472
CRIMES OF PATENT
A few days later, Clair picked me up from Marseille airport and drove us directly to the offices of Rome Consultant Financier to meet a certain Patrick Jaoui. Clair had hired his services to seek out investors with a view to distributing houseware collapsibles in France but, as I entered the building, I got the distinct impression that I was dealing with another Wexford Capital and it was not a comfortable feeling. Having shaken hands with PatrickJaoui, I was introduced to three other individuals all of them prominent French businesspeople who were excited by my containers and the patent protection they carried. "I'm pleased to meet you at last, Mr Touzani," said one of them. "I must say that I and my colleagues here are very happy that you've granted us an exclusive license for your patents in Europe. As you know, we've just invested over one hundred thousand dollars in CG Distribution and I'd like to assure you here and now that we'll all do our best not to fail you." It was intended to be a friendly, not to say flattering way of greeting me but the conventional reply I was expected to give stuck in my throat. My mouth went dry. I glanced towards Costanzo and saw that he was making a big effort to look relaxed. His eyes, however, roved over the entire office without settling on anyone and his smile had taken on a noticeably lopsided appearance. Jaoui seemed rooted to the spot. "What do you mean, an exclusive license for Europe?" I asked. "I think I ought to say that no such license has been issued." It was now the investors' turn to look shocked. "It hasn't been issued?" echoed one of them weakly. "But that was the whole basis of our investment." He turned to face Clair who by now had turned a brilliant shade of red and was clearly wishing that the floor would open up and swallow him. "Technically speaking, it's true, Pierre," he said. "At the moment I have Mr Touzani's verbal promise. We're going to put the agreement in writing while he's in town." Suddenly another face was superimposed on Clair's: it was that of Rodney Commons who had used almost identical tactics with his investors. As I now knew, to my cost, Rodney's final objective had been the total acquisition of my patents. I headed for the door. With my fingers on the handle, I turned and faced the room. "Gentlemen," I said, angrily. "I have never issued either verbally or in writing - any statement or agreement providing Mr Costanzo
473
PRIVATE SCREENING
with exclusive patent rights in Europe. I can assure you that I wouldn't or Unilever. None of our preeven have taken such a step with vious conversations extended beyond the possibility of his company's distributing ready-to-use canisters in France only and I mean only. And even then I set performance requirements for which I have yet to receive his endorsement. I'm sorry to say that I have no further intention of doing business with this man. Gentlemen, you have wasted your money!" I left everyone in a state of shock. It was incredible that Clair's investors had not taken the simple precaution of insisting that a copy of the inventor's license be attached to their business offering. Personally, I wouldn't have taken Clair's word alone on the condition of a used car let alone a one hundred thousand dollar investment. Why didn't I know people who would gobble up anything you threw at them? I could have done with a hundred thousand bucks right then. By the time I hit the street, Clair was already hot-footing it after me, his investors, presumably, long-forgotten. As I walked quickly through one of the more nondescript neighborhoods of Marseille, I could hear him yelling behind me. When I stopped at the corner of a busy street to hail a taxi-cab, he caught up and bounced around in front of me like a large, over-friendly dog. I made a point of looking over his head. "I meant to tell you about it, Bill," he protested. "I promise you I did. Let's go get some coffee, huh? explain it all to you." "What's to explain?" I asked. "You lied to them. You can go to jail for that and they might just see that you do." "Hey, come on, Bill!" exclaimed Clair. "Business is "Business?" I interrupted. I looked him in the eye. "Spare me the platitudes, Clair. I've seen more than my fair share of crooks but I've never seen one as sloppy as you. If you'd only been straight with me, I'd have worked with you every step of the way that's the way I've always operated. You didn't need to impress me with thousands of bucks of investment: all I ever needed was to be convinced that you were committed to the project and that you'd give it your best shot. And that's all I ever asked. Fortunes have been made on far less." Yet suddenly I felt sorry for Clair. He had never struck me as being particularly intelligent but now there was no doubt about it. He wanted so desperately to be a big-league tycoon but tragically he lacked the
474
CRIMES OF PATENT
basic education required to carry it off. On the whole, he would have been far better advised to have stuck to what he knew - small-time deals with equally-inexperienced clients who wouldn't recognize a phony agreement if they tripped over it in the street. Given anything more ambitious than that, he would always be his own victim. "Okay, Clair," I said. "Let's go back to my hotel. You can explain yourself over coffee. Not that it'll make the slightest bit of difference." I finally succeeded in hailing a cab and we set off in the direction of my hotel. We had gone no more than half a mile through some of the most winding and dirty streets I had ever seen when Clair abruptly asked the taxi-driver to stop and wait. "I want to show you another of my business interests," he said. "You mean your porno business? You already told me about it. I'm not interested, Clair." "It'll only take a few minutes. I have to speak to someone urgently." "Okay," I said, reluctantly. Clair led the way into a crumbling residential building and up the stairs to the third floor. We entered an innocent-looking apartment. The lobby was empty of furniture and opened directly onto a large bedroom that was obviously intended for use as a living-room but was now occupied by a huge king-sized bed with pink, satin sheets. A girl with dyed blonde hair and a thin, slightly muscular man were locked in a naked embrace under glaring lights. Another man with a video-camera on his shoulder was bending over them and filming in what was clearly gynecological detail. Several other people, technicians and hangerson, were watching idly. A partially-dressed girl with a North-African appearance leaned against the door beside me. A few people looked round as we entered and nodded towards Clair. No introductions were considered necessary. The couple on the bed finished their shot, were given further instructions and proceeded to the next take. More out of embarrassment at watching what was going on in front of me than for any other reason, I turned my attention to the girl leaning against the door. "Are you one of the actresses?" She smiled slightly as if the use of the word 'actress' amused her. "Yes." "Where are you from?" "Originally, you mean? Morocco." Immediately I switched from French to Moroccan. Being addressed in her own language took the girl completely off-guard. She looked ter-
475
PRIVATE SCREENING
ribly embarrassed almost as if she'd suddenly found herself standing next to a member of her family, which, in a way, she was. She knew, of course, that back home she would never have been permitted to take part in such work neither from a moral nor a legal point of view. "You ready, asked one of the film-crew. She shook her head. "Not while you're here," she said to me. "I couldn't." "Why do you do this?" I asked. "I mean this sort of thing is totally alien to our culture." "For the money," she replied simply. "I'm married. I have children. I do it to help my family." "Do they know about it?" She laughed without humor. "Of course they don't." During our conversation, the action in front of us continued. Finally, the yelling, the cursing, the cleaning-up and the hot, stifling, bedroom were beginning to get to me. My stomach started to churn. I needed fresh air. Clair had talked to no one. He simply stood there watching the contortions on the bed. It was clear that our presence there had been staged for my benefit but to what end I could only guess. Had it been designed to appeal to my sense of adventure? Had he, mistakenly, thought I'd get a kick out of watching people do in public what almost everyone has done in private? Had he, naively, thought that I would consider the porno-business as no more than another profitable enterprise and be impressed accordingly? "Good luck, I muttered, and turned towards the door. Clair followed me without uttering a word. "This is it!" I thought, as I trudged downstairs. "This is the end! I want nothing further to do with this man. I don't even want a refund on my plane-ticket." On the way to the hotel, Clair and I exchanged very few words. and Uppermost in my mind was the resigned hopelessness of the cynical way in which her poverty was being exploited. And Clair, and people like Clair, were responsible. Once back at the hotel, Clair invited me for dinner. I declined. I let him talk me into a cup of coffee but I still said very little and unless Clair was, indeed, a total moron, he must have known that his plan whatever it actually was had backfired. For my part, I was still entirely mystified regarding his motives and this puzzlement was only
476
CRIMES OF PATENT
increased when he reached into his briefcase and pulled out a signed document. "You see this, Bill?" he asked proudly. "A couple of weeks ago I had a complete examination and I'm certified one hundred percent H.I.V. negative." I still, for the life of me, have no idea how I was expected to receive this information. However, the way I did receive it is still vivid in my memory. I instantly felt a rising tide of nausea. I got up from the table, spilling my coffee, my stomach heaving threateningly. "Clair," I gulped. "I'm sorry about this. I just have to throw up." I staggered out into the street and managed to choke back my retching just in time. On that sour note, 1990 ended.
477
25 . DE GOOIJER
By the beginning of 1991, De Gooijer, my unofficial Dutch lawyer, had received a response from the American Arbitration Association. Their spokesman, Mr Tick, acknowledged his request for a postponement and declared that the matter would be debated on the first day of the arbitration on January 9th. The question clearly required serious discussion and, with that in mind, I stopped by De Gooijer's office soon after he notified me of the reply. By now, De Gooijer had struggled his way through Bouteille and his interest in the subject had been stimulated to the point where he was prepared to offer me all the help he could. Sadly, of course, the degree to which he could do so was severely limited. "I think you can pretty well give up on the idea of a postponement," he said. "The hearings were scheduled and coordinated several months ago and that, n o doubt, involved quite a bit of work. Now we're asking them to go through all that hassle again. Sure, they'll debate it on the first day of arbitration, as you requested, but if you ask me, the whole thing is a foregone conclusion." "So what am I supposed to do?" I asked despairingly. "It was a month back when they accepted my attorney's withdrawal. I haven't received his files yet. Now here I am less than a week away from arbitration and I've no documents to support my case." De Gooijer looked at me sympathetically but did not answer. I could feel my eyes pricking. "I can't believe I've wasted so much time and money waiting for this moment," I continued. "And now that it's here, I'm unable to attend the hearings for fear of arrest and imprisonment, denied legal counsel and doomed to watch my entire world-wide operation go up in smoke." "I'm sorry, Bill," said De Gooijer, bitterly. "There's not much I can say or do to improve matters. For the record, I'm every bit as disgusted as you with the way that this has turned out. From now on, you must
478
CRIMES OF PATENT
never sign any sort of agreement under U.S. law: the country has no respect for its intellectual property, let alone anyone else's. If this dispute had been heard here in Europe, you'd have found yourself in a specialized court in front of specialized judges. We wouldn't dream of entrusting the matter to anyone else. Patents are the property of the state and it's the state that's ultimately responsible for their safeguard. The U.S. government, on the other hand, seems quite happy to dump the whole problem in your lap - with the result that there are currently over one hundred patents, world-wide, that bear your name and no potential licensee will have anything to do with them for fear of being swamped with court documents. Frankly, I'm appalled. The only constructive advice I can offer you is return to America and be there in person on January 9th." This was easier said than done. In the interests of leaving nothing to chance, De Gooijer had sent a letter to the San District Attorney just before Christmas in which he requested the dropping of all criminal charges against me. They were, he wrote, unfounded and were preventing me from attending the much more important and longawaited arbitration in Stockton. The D.A. took his time. His reply, when it finally came, arrived at De Gooijer's office in the form of a fax on January 8th the eve of the arbitration. His letter was short and to the point:
Please advise your client that the arrest warrant will not be withdrawn and that he is considered to be a fugitive. W e consider the solicitation of a witness to commit perjury at t i a l to be a very serious offense. Touzani Pursuant to California criminal law, is not entitled to discovery of the documents in this case until his arraignment on the criminal complaint.
The letter was the last nail in my coffin. Dennis' actions had amply demonstrated that I was presumed guilty but now it was also clear that I was regarded as a fugitive from justice irrespective of the fact that I had been living and working at the same address before and after the charges had been filed. It was certainly true that I had been aware of the charges made against me but had I been expected to abandon my attempts to salvage my patents and my business and hop on the next flight to California only to have handcuffs slapped on my wrists and be led off to jail? I did not have sufficient money to guarantee bail and if I'd had the money
479
PRIVATE SCREENING
I'd have spent it on securing my attorney. After all, what would have been the point in being free if everything I was trying to defend was wiped away? Everything seemed so convenient for my persecutors. I was certainly not in hiding in Holland: everyone knew where I lived and they even had the address and phone number of my Dutch attorney. In spite of that, I had never been served with an official criminal complaint and it was clear that absolutely no attempt had been made to get in touch with me. Had it not been for the newspaper articles sent by friends and enemies I would have been blissfully unaware that charges had been filed against me. From where I stood, it seemed very District Attorney was pursuing the case with much as if the San some reluctance. No one could have disputed the fact that I had been the victim of entrapment but maybe they were now coming to realize the extent to which the accusations made against me had been fabricated and stage-managed for the purpose of intimidation. This was their first commercial bribery case and it must have been becoming uncomfortably clear that it was little more than a hoax. On the other hand, if I continued to stay away, they would win simply by default. I must confess that even if I'd had the money to guarantee bail and retain my lawyer and pursue the arbitration to a successful conclusion, I would still have been pretty wary about returning to California. The last time I had been there to defend my own and interests against the SCAT partners I had ended up being railroaded and it was quite conceivable that the same thing might happen again. What would be fabricated against me next time? Maybe they would happen to match my fingerprints to those found on a high-powered rifle left in the Texas Schoolbook Depository in November 1963 and accuse me of the murder of J.F.K.. Admittedly, at the age of eight, I'd have been a little young for an assassin but we all know how fanatical Arabs can be, don't we? If all it took to defeat me was a simple accusation, why restrict themselves to perjury and commercial bribery? In the days of the Roman Empire it was standard practice to denounce political opponents to the Emperor. Most often, the mere fact that a denunciation had been made was enough to sow sufficient doubts in Caesar's mind to convince him that the safest course of action would be to dispose of the victim quickly and quietly, without recourse to a trial. Like most people, I had imagined that justice had come on a long way since then but, of course, I was reckoning without basic human nature. When the fundamental point at issue is one of trustworthiness, an accusation alone is usually enough to call that into
480
CRIMES OF PATENT
question. It had certainly been to make Judge Hansen rule against me in the SCAT case and I had every reason to believe that it would work to my disadvantage in the arbitration. The fact that such accusations had never been substantiated in a court of law would not prevent them from prejudicing the arbitrators: after all, and with references to ancient history aside, if you walk like a duck, talk like a duck and look like a duck it's perfectly conceivable that you are a duck. Finally I received a box of documents from John McKinley in Stockton. It was a large box and it arrived on the eve of the arbitration. Faced with several thousand pieces of paper and with the hearing a matter of hours away, I was totally overwhelmed. Where the hell was I expected to start? I would have to assimilate two years of legal work by seven o'clock the following evening. I didn't have a hope. "Mr Touzani?" came an arbitrator's voice from half a world away. "We are about to discuss your request for a six months' postponement. Can you stay on the line for that? We can put a speaker-phone in the middle of the room." "Sure," I said. "I'll wait." "I'm going to introduce everyone who's present here," he continued. "There is Mr Lawrence, Dr Thomas, their counsel Mr Siebert and, of course, the three arbitrators." I listened intently but my head was swimming with exhaustion. The thought of starting such important proceedings under these conditions had kept me awake for several nights. My heart was beating rapidly, my voice was choppy and Fenny was not there. "Mr Touzani," said the voice, "we would like to hear your arguments in favor of a postponement." By now, I knew that this was a lost cause already. The most that I could hope for was to appeal to their sense of fairness. But this has rarely been an effective tactic in the past and I had no great expectation that it would succeed now. "Well, gentlemen," I said, "as you know, I do not have a lawyer. On top of that, I received the relevant files from my previous lawyer only yesterday. Under the circumstances, I think a postponement would only be fair. Failing that, I'd like to request that I be allowed to stay on the line and contribute to these proceedings over the speakerphone." There was a pause broken only by the continuous crackling of a long-distance communication.
481
PRIVATE SCREENING
"That's a very unusual request, Mr Touzani," came the voice. "The arbitrators will have to consider it in private." It was now Mr Siebert's turn to argue against the postponement. These arguments were formally set out in a three page document which I, of course, did not have. "Do you have fax facilities at your disposal, Mr Touzani?" asked the voice. "Yes, I do," I replied. "Then we shall fax you Mr Siebert's document." Within a few minutes the fax machine began to roll. B this time, y Siebert was already well into his presentation and I was madly trying to catch up with the written version as the aural version crackled into my ear. I was conducting my case from the garage-office of my house in Uithoorn and, for want of space, the fax machine was spewing its roll over the floor. Still holding the phone to my ear, I ducked under the table, crawled over the cold concrete and knelt to read it. The substance of Siebert's argument seemed to be that CBA could no longer tolerate additional postponements and that the arbitration was already long overdue. Further delays, he claimed, would only irrevocably hurt the company. It was all pretty ironic and a gross distortion of the truth: when the restraining order had gone into force two years before, I had wanted the arbitration to follow as quickly as possible every week that went by in which the position of my business was not yet resolved caused me more heartache and resulted in further damage to my entire operation. I'd had to wait for two years - two years that had been the result of Mr Siebert's own strategy which hinged around the hope that, having run out of money and thus being deprived of legal counsel, I would simply abandon my case. Now he was trying to convince the arbitrators that I had caused the delays for the purpose of destroying the company's business. Siebert then proceeded to admit that CBA had been unable to do any business because they'd had no 'clear title' to my patents. This didn't come as any great surprise to me - I'd known for a while that they weren't making much more than covered Dennis' salary. However, I found it quite incredible that my failure to assign my patents to a bunch of crooks was being blamed for their inability to profit from my illegal removal as general partner. And where had this talk of 'clear title' suddenly come from?. To have 'clear title' means that the patent rights have been formally assigned which, in turn, means that the inventor himself has
482
CRIMES OF PATENT
quished all claim of ownership to them. My agreement with my partners had been for licensing which entailed performance requirements and reciprocity. As CBA had failed in both of these areas, the rights should have reverted to the inventor. Siebert was trying to maintain that failure to perform resulted directly from this lack of clear title conveniently ignoring the fact that the company had been remarkably successful without it only a few years before. The arbitrators recessed the hearing and went into closed chambers to discuss the postponement. It was denied. I could, they said, stay on the line, if I chose, and take part in the hearing via the speaker-phone. This made me, as far as I'm aware, the first person in history to follow fivedays of arbitration by telephone. I might also have earned my place in the Guinness Book of Records for the longest telephone communication and I would certainly be a strong contender for the highest daily bill run up by an ordinary subscriber roughly one thousand dollars a day. Absurdly, I could have flown first-class to California,booked into the Sheraton Hotel and gone to the arbitration in a limousine for that sort of money but it was too late to worry about that now. I just hoped that when the telephone line was suspended, the arbitration which was due to conclude a month later would be over. Mr Siebert's opening statement took half an hour and seemed to be identical to the one he'd recited at the SCAT trial where he was supposed to have been a defendant. The statement reiterated the criminal charges made against me: how I had asked Dennis Lawrence to perjure himself; how I had offered him a ten percent equity in return for an affidavit full of lies; how these charges were finally going to put me where I belonged. As if this might not be quite enough to divert the attention of the arbitrators from what we should have been discussing, he went on to remind everyone that I had lost the Max Hollis-Touzani and had had a one hundred and eighty thousand case in San dollar award made against me an award which was still continuing to grow. "Gentlemen," concluded Siebert, "the plaintiffs in that case have just filed a motion in the superior court demanding that Mr Touzani turns over all his personal property to them and specifically asking for the assignment of Touzani's two U.S. patents. I'm sure I don't need to remind you that part of what they call Mr Touzani's personal property is the house in La Jolla which was purchased with CBA funds. Moreover, if we lose clear title to Mr Touzani's American patents, CBA will be out of business. As Mr Touzani owns over eighty percent of CBA, I have to confess that I simply don't see what he wants. Thank you."
483
PRIVATE SCREENING
So that was it, I thought. That was the beginning and end of it all. Why didn't I just hang up there and then and save myself a huge phone bill? Instead I was going to sit with that damned receiver at my ear for over thirty hours, arguing about subjects that would never have arisen had not my partners sought a restraining order and destroyed their business and mine. What could I realistically hope to achieve? Whatever I succeeded in obtaining would only be gobbled up by some other sharks. If the arbitrators needed proof of my guilt, it was all there in the verdict of the SCAT trial and the charges of bribery and perjury. Finally, if Mr Siebert thought for a minute that eighty-four percent of a company run by Dennis Lawrence was worth anything, he was sadly mistaken. I knew that if he'd been totally candid, he would have had to admit that he didn't think that either. Mr Siebert was no longer simply concerned with securing an income for his clients - I think all of them, by now, must have reached the conclusion that there was no income worth securing. His present problem was caused by the fact that I had filed counter-claims for half a billion dollars and, if the judgement of the arbitrators went against them, his clients stood to lose everything they had. Mrs Schwemley, the trustee for the partners in this arbitration, had even offered to withdraw her complaint against me if I would withdraw mine. Before I was given the floor or, to be more precise, the speakerphone - I was informed that the arbitrators had just received some documents from John McKinley. I was asked if I was aware of their existence and whether I wanted them entered as evidence. "I do indeed, sir," I replied. "Those are the drafts of the partnership agreement for CBA." I had hardly gotten those words out of my mouth before Siebert objected. "The only relevant agreement is the one that was signed," he said. "I object strongly to any drafts being entered as exhibits. They are totally irrelevant to the points at issue." "Gentlemen," I replied, "In his opening statement, Mr Siebert said that in the absence of any clause in the agreement forbidding the removal of a general partner, a two-thirds majority vote was required under Californian law. This point was also made two years ago when the restraining order was signed. The drafts will show that the paragraphs referring to the removal of the general partner were consistently rejected by me, as were all other words and sentences relating to them. You have there a full and complete record of my efforts to expunge all mention of removal from the agreement and an
484
CRIMES OF PATENT
of why it took two months before the final agreement was signed." "Okay, Mr Touzani," said one of the arbitrators, interrupting me. "We'll take this issue on consultation and let you know in due course whether we accept the drafts or not." I thought it incredible that the admissibility of documents of such importance needed to be discussed in closed session. I had always believed that a verbal agreement was just as binding and enforceable as a written document and, indeed, this had been the basis for Max Hollis' lawsuit. Surely the fact that all parties to the agreement understood and accepted that the general partner could not be removed should have overridden any arbitrary application of state law. We were now no more than two hours into the hearings and it seemed as though the arbitrators were already showing signs of bias. I had discussed the possibility of bias with De Gooijer a few days before the beginning of the arbitration. As a lawyer, I might have expected him to dismiss my anxieties but, as it turned out, he took them very seriously. "It works in your favor to have three arbitrators," he said. "It makes it very difficult for them to be biased or unethical. Even if one of them were tempted, he'd be well aware that he was constantly watched by the others and I think that would tend to keep him on the straight and narrow. I'm not entirely discounting the possibility of collusion between all three but it really isn't very likely in my opinion." At the time, I'd accepted his opinion: he was the expert after all. But my suspicions increased dramatically when the arbitrators returned to the subject of the criminal charges. "Mr Touzani," said one of them, "have you received a copy of the charges filed against you by the San District Attorney?" "Oh, Jesus!" I thought. "Here we go again! I hoped we'd heard the last of that!" "No, sir," I replied. "All I've ever seen have been newspaper articles referring to them." "In that case we'll fax you a copy at lunchtime." They adjourned for lunch. I would have preferred to have adjourned for bed - not that I would have gotten much sleep when I was there. As it was, I'd hardly had time to fix myself a drink before the fax machine began to spool off what turned out to be a dozen pages of text. I read: The People of the State of California versus William Touzani. Declaration in support of arrest warrant by Frank E. Reid.
485
PRIVATE SCREENING
Frank's declaration began by stating that I'd had my conversations with Dennis Lawrence recorded on three occasions. As I read on, tears began to stream down my face. The whole thing was a tissue of lies lies that could so easily have been rebuffed had they simply asked me to reply to them, lies that had been finely orchestrated to make me look like the most contemptible human being alive: a pathetic inventor on some sort of crazed vendetta against his partners. There was no mention anywhere of the most crucial point of all: that what I wanted in return for the 'promised' transfer of equity to Dennis were international patents whose issuance by foreign governments was the subject central to the SCAT trial in progress at the time. "Lies! Lies! Lies!" I shouted through my tears, as reams of this trash skittered over the floor. "The whole thing's nothing but lies!" It was now abundantly clear that, as far as my partners and their lawyers were concerned, the criminal charges made against me were to be the focus of the arbitration. I had entertained some hopes that the arbitrators would see that I had been the victim of an elaborate set-up a set-up which was just the latest and most damaging tactic in a battleplan that had been put into effect two years earlier when the restraining order had been issued. It now seemed that my hopes had been unrealistic. The arbitration ought to have concentrated on what I had accomplished before the restraining order, what I had achieved after it overseas and what Dennis Lawrence had singularly failed to do in every respect. It should have focussed on the unnecessary acts that had been perpetrated in order to remove me and the amount of damage that had resulted from them. Instead, I was being forced to deal with a matter which had no relevance to saving my business and could only destroy it utterly. What was doubly frustrating was that I could so easily have avoided falling into the trap that had been laid for me. Under the terms of the restraining order, I had been forbidden to talk to Dennis in any case. Fenny had warned me about it; John McKinley had warned me had warned me about it. Had I only heedabout it; van den ed their advice, the plot would have failed and the arbitration would have been straightforward. By the time I was given leave to make my opening statement, my anger had risen to boiling-point. I mastered it only with the greatest difficulty. "Gentlemen," I began, "at the SCAT trial, Dennis Lawrence and I were supposed to be on the same side. We were attempting to stop Max Hollis and his partners from taking possession of our U.S. patents and
486
CRIMES OF PATENT
we were asking for damages for breach of contract and malicious conduct. We had a strong case. In fact our case was so strong that I really didn't have to be there. I certainly couldn't afford it financially. It came as some surprise to me, when I did turn up at the court, to find that everyone seemed to have reached a settlement except me. I stood alone. In itself, and given my past experiences, this was not entirely surprising: I am the majority shareholder after all and, what is more, I would never be so naive as to presume on the goodwill and cooperation of my partners. "Now I think most people would have assumed that in spite of the strength of our case there was every likelihood that I would lose. I was now one man against many. Apparently this likelihood was not enough for Dennis Lawrence he had to be doubly sure. So, he conspired to entrap me by lying outright about many of the facts that were to be settled in this arbitration. Of course the District Attorney was not an arbitrator and he took Dennis at his word." "I think 1 should say here and now that I have absolutely no intention of paying thousands of dollars for this conversation if the arbitration is to go ahead under the assumption that I am a criminal. I just be able to stay can't take that. Even now, I have no idea how long try to cut a long story short: I devoted sevon the line to you and so eral weeks and many drafts of our partnership agreement to making sure that my partners could not separate the inventor from the invention under any circumstances. Without any warning, they slapped a restraining order on me and claimed that they had the right to elect another general partner because the signed agreement contained no clause relating to my removal. At the time, I had no idea that Californian law allowed them to do that under such circumstances but, significantly, they did." "The restraining order was imposed practically overnight. 'Why the urgency?' you may ask. The basis of my partners' argument seemed to be that I had caused them a ten million dollar loss of royalties from Beverages by renegotiating an agreement over the phone and they wished to minimize the possibility of further damage. Naturally the one obstacle to substantiating this argument would have been the himself Peter This they testimony of the President of sidestepped by alleging that he was my accomplice in that I had granted him exclusive rights for the one hundred percent juice application at the expense of Minute Maid a company which, in fact, had made no offer whatsoever for this category. In so doing, they successfully discredited a man who was not only the biggest contributor to
487
PRIVATE SCREENING
the initial success of CBA but our lifeline in the business. Thanks to their efforts, he now looked like nothing more than a crook." "Of course two years ago I had no proof that my dismissal would result in Sundale's going out of business. We only had Peter word for that and, at the time, his word didn't seem to carry much weight. We now know that CBA has not only failed to receive the twenty-five million dollar royalty originally negotiated but has also not received the renegotiated royalty of ten million dollars or, in fact, a single, solitary dollar. We also know that, since was surgically removed from the business, Minute Maid has made no move to fill the vacancy. So, effectively, we also know that the urgency with which my partners requested the restraining order was unnecessary. According to our agreement, disputes were to be settled by arbitration and if the agreement had been honored our business could have gone ahead as usual up to these present hearings." "The actions that my partners took destroyed my business instantly. They even admit as much themselves. They may well complain about the damage done to them but I am by far the majority shareholder in the company and I have nothing. I can't even afford an attorney and I'm reduced to defending myself over the telephone from a distance of ten thousand miles. Was all of that necessary? Was all of this destruction really worth Dennis Lawrence's job? This is all I want from you, gentlemen all I need you to know. Thank you very much." After these two opening statements we adjourned for the day. "Mr Touzani," said one of the arbitrators. "It's nearly three o'clock here. Most of us live in the Bay area and we'd like to beat the rushhour." For me, three o'clock was midnight. The rush-hour had long gone. I went upstairs and peeked into the bedroom. Fenny was asleep. I'd caught a glimpse of her as she sneaked in earlier in the evening when I had been crawling around the garage floor on my hands and knees. I returned downstairs and tried to make myself comfortable on the couch. Sleep was ten thousand miles away from my mind. I switched on the TV. At seven p.m. the following day I was still sorting exhaustedly through John McKinley's box of documents when the phone rang. It was one of the arbitrators informing me that the second day of the hearing was about to begin.
488
CRIMES OF PATENT
The first witness was Dr Thomas. But before he was called, I received a warning. "One thing we want you to remember, Mr Touzani," said an arbitrator, "is that when you cross-examine a witness you are not permitted to argue with him. Please avoid any kind of argumentative behavior." "I understand," I said. Siebert then spent nearly an hour asking Dr Thomas a series of totally irrelevant questions. Following that, those present in considered that it had been long enough since breakfast and decided to recess for lunch. This too took a little more than an hour. At ten p.m., my time, Fenny brought my dinner over from her parents' and told me it was there in the kitchen if I wanted to eat it. I had no appetite. I entered the bedroom, where Fenny was watching TV, and wished her good night. Already I was shaking with nervousness, excitement and sheer health. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, I was sick. The phone rang again. Everyone in California had resumed his seat. It was my turn to confront Dr Thomas. "Dr Thomas. In your deposition you acknowledged knowing about my international business. You also acknowledged receiving letters from Dennis Lawrence informing you of a seventy-five thousand dollar loan I made to CBA a year before you sought the restraining order. You acknowledged having met with me to discuss my purchases of a cedes car, an apartment in Holland and a penthouse in Morocco several months before the restraining order. When my lawyer asked you if you'd had any objections to the conduct of my European business, you responded in the negative. When he asked you if any of my other partners had raised objections, you replied that you hadn't heard of any. When he asked you why you'd had no objections, you answered, on several occasions, that you'd invested in CBA and the American market alone, that I had sole control of the international market, that you were aware of my income from it and that it was finally no concern of yours. Yet, in spite of being fully aware of these facts, in spite of having accepted them for several months, years even, you chose to file a restraining order and use them to mislead the judge concerned, confident in the knowledge that I couldn't afford a defense. What I'd like to know now is whether, two years on, you are better off and are making any more money from my inventions than before the restraining order was imposed."
489
PRIVATE SCREENING
When I look at my questions and my arguments in cold print it's hard to believe that anyone could have seriously attempted to refute them. They look so rigorous, so absolutely logical that it's surprising that my opponents didn't throw in the towel there and then. Unfortunately this speech of mine was made down a static-infested, echoing telephone line and was constantly interrupted by Siebert's objections. Owing to a delay of several milliseconds, by the time I heard these objections I was usually well-embarked on my next question and Siebert wasn't quite sure whether I was responding to his objection or making a fresh point neither was I always sure which question he was objecting to. The resulting confusion reduced my carefully considered cross-examination to a disjointed cacophony from which the central points could be extracted only with considerable difficulty. Needless to say, Dr Thomas denied all my statements. And so we proceeded carefully and painfully through his written deposition taking each point in turn and, at the end of two hours of relentless hammering, he was finally taking refuge in such utterances as "We didn't know what you were doing. We just didn't know. You weren't keeping us in touch." It was clearly far better for him to respond in that way than to have to acknowledge his lies. I was generally satisfied with the way in which this was proceeding. I had shown Dr Thomas to be a greedy liar and that ought to have been enough to cast doubts on the integrity of the other partners. In fact his humiliation was so complete that after a while his lawyer and even the arbitrators themselves were asking me to stop my questioning. Finally I asked him the most important question of all. "Dr Thomas, you admitted being present at every stage of the drafting of the partnership agreement. At the time you signed it, did you do so in the knowledge that the general partner - myself could not be removed under any conditions?" There was a long silence. I had allowed Dr Thomas no room for retreat. Had he lied about this too, I would merely have confronted him with his deposition. "Yes, I did," he said at last. I sat back in my chair in my garage at Uithoorn. I felt like saying: "You son-of-a-bitch!I could strangle you!" "One last thing," I said, before they shut off the speaker-phone. "Just one thing more. I'd like to draw the attention of those present to page one hundred and sixty-five of Dr Thomas' deposition. Now here we have a man who claims to have requested a restraining order for the sole purpose of saving his business from abuse and protecting his
490
CRIMES OF PATENT
investment. Yet, curiously enough, we can see that only two months after the order was granted, Dr Thomas and the rest of the partners began serious discussions with a view to selling their equity interest in the company to none other than Dennis Lawrence. And for how much? For a considerable profit? For a modest profit, then? No, gentlemen. For the same amount of money that they put into the business in the first place a lousy two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Moreover, they were not even going to receive this money immediately: it was to be paid by Mr Lawrence over a period of several years. I don't think it takes a genius to see that shortly after the restraining order was granted, the partners quickly realized that Dennis Lawrence had been lying to them, that all of my licensees had gone out of business and that there was no Minute Maid waiting in the wings. To put it simply, they wanted out before they had to contribute any more to Dennis' schemes." "Now under the terms of our partnership agreement - terms of which they are, in all other respects, most scrupulous about observing they were obliged to consult me about this. According to the agreement, I ought to have been granted first refusal on any sale of shares. The fact alone that the partners went to such extraordinary lengths to destroy my business, only to try to sell it such a short time later, points to the uncaring attitude that they have demonstrated all along and to their cynical manipulation of the legal system for the purpose of safeguarding their own, private interests. They should be punished." Of course this statement was punctuated by Mr attempts to get the arbitrators to shut me up - claiming that I was being argumentative. Nevertheless, I felt confident that the points I had made had found their mark. The next day, at seven p.m., the morning began with the doctors' patent expert. This gentleman sounded so old and articulated so badly that I had grave doubts about whether he was alive at all. As I strained to catch what he was saying, I began to curse the fact that telephones aren't provided with a volume control but I think it would have taken a two thousand watt public address system to have rendered him intelligible. The problem of actually hearing what everyone was saying had recurred many times throughout the hearing. Most significantly, the sound quality tended to degrade substantially whenever Siebert or his witnesses were speaking. After a while, I reached the conclusion that they were deliberately placing themselves in positions where the
491
PRIVATE SCREENING
microphone could not adequately pick them up. On occasion, after enduring an hour of incomprehensible mumbling, I would even desert the telephone entirely and take a breath of fresh air. As far as I could tell, Mr Siebert asked the expert some very general and unchallenging questions about my patents. When my turn to cross-examine him arrived, I only had a few questions to ask. "Sir, have you seen any mention in either my licensing agreement with CBA, or in the partnership agreement itself, of my licensing the company for any product other than bottles?" "No," he replied, in an undertone. "I didn't hear you, sir. Could you speak up?" "No," I heard. "Do you agree that my second patent entitled Hollow Articles deals with many products other than bottles - or even containers for that matter?" "Yes." "I have one further question. In my licensing agreement with CBA, under a paragraph entitled New Developments, it says that any improvements on the bottle, regardless of authorship, should be the property of CBA. Are we to understand by that phrase that if the Hollow Articles patent had been filed by a Japanese inventor in Tokyo, CBA would be justified in laying claim to the patent?" "No." "So does the paragraph regarding new developments refer only to improvements within the scope of the patent I licensed to CBA? By which I mean, if a guy in NewJersey who had never heard of CBA were to develop a collapsible bottle, he would then be infringing patent and would have to account to the company." "Yes." "Thank you, sir. That is all. No further questions." Peter was the last witness for this marathon three days of hearings. At least as far as I was concerned the three days were a marathon: I had now spent over seventy-two hours without sleep and my calorie-intake had been rather less than that of the average sparrow. Siebert cross-examined Peter in a manner which was intended to confuse the arbitrators about my motives in reducing his royalty payments. It was all a bit irrelevant since, as general partner at that time, I had been fully empowered to take any sort of decision I thought fit: irrespective of whether it was a good one or not. Of course the aim of
492
CRIMES OF PATENT
Siebert's questions - an unsuccessful one as it turned out was to get Peter to admit that the reductions in his payments had been made in return for the advance payment he had made for Europe an area in which my partners had no equity. It was only when I came to crossexamine Peter myself that he was given a chance to reject the implication. "Touzani's reduction of our minimum royalty payment for 1988 was," he said, "mandatory at the time. It was the only way of keeping us in business. I must stress that at that point we had no plans for Europe. The quarter of a million dollar advance that I made to Touzani for the European market the following year had nothing whatsoever to do with any prior agreement regarding the U.S. market. The European operation involved new investment opportunities for an entirely different kind of investor. All my agreements with Touzani were negotiated in good faith and I stand by the statements I made in my affidavit of two years ago." So much for their only witness. I could only assume that Siebert had counted on my not taking part in the arbitration: with the result that he would have been able to have gotten away with a carefully planned line of questioning. Had Peter been denied an opportunity to refute the accusation of collusion, the reduction of his royalty payment would have inevitably been regarded as a pay-off and, added to my advance on European royalties, would have been considered as an amount owed to my partners. This, in fact, formed the basis of the half million dollars worth of misappropriation of funds of which I'd been accused. It was a great relief to me that Peter had finally laid these allegations to rest. Or so I thought. The arbitration resumed three weeks later in early February for the final two days. Dennis Lawrence was to be the first to take the stand: I was to be the last. The second day was to be taken up with closing statements. I was excited at the prospect of finally being able to cross-examine Dennis. His deposition had been postponed and re-postponed at the request of his lawyer and ultimately it had never been taken. This put me at some slight disadvantage: when I'd cross-examined Dr Thomas, I'd had his formal deposition to hand and had thus been able to confront him immediately with any discrepancies. Siebert kicked off the game by spending almost five hours going through receipts ranging from a hundred to five hundred dollars that CBA had paid for. It was now my turn to interrupt constantly I had no
493
PRIVATE SCREENING
copies of what they were looking at and until they were faxed to me I had no idea what was being discussed. "Look, gentlemen," said Siebert, with the apparent reasonableness that he'd used several times before, "I can't tie up my firm's fax-line for hours at a time just to send him documents. We have to pay for all this. Mr Touzani has had ample opportunity to appear here in person and view the documents for himself." During the hearing it had become quite obvious that the arbitrators felt a certain amount of guilt about holding the hearings at the plaintiffs' office, tying up a phone line for an entire day and using their secretary to fax documents to me on a continuous basis. More disturbingly, it inevitably meant that they felt a considerable amount of sympathy for the plaintiffs for having to endure this kind of discomfort. The request to send me copies of the alleged personal expenses was refused. My chance to cross-examine Dennis Lawrence came, appropriately, on the stroke of midnight. I was now in quite a quandary as to how I should address him. 'Mr Lawrence' was clearly the appropriate form, given both the formality of the arbitration and my hatred of the man, but I had never addressed him directly in that way since our first meeting at the Wexford Capital office and it now seemed false and faintly absurd. "Would you state your full name for the record, please?" I asked coldly. "Dennis Lawrence." "And your address?" "3161 Morning Way, La Jolla, California." "But isn't that my house?" I said in surprise. "Yes," replied Dennis. "Are you telling me that you harassed my tenants there to the point where I almost lost my house and the first thing you did after preventing that was to move in there yourself?" "Yes, Bill," he said in a voice that was clearly embarrassed. I made a great effort to control myself and proceeded. "Dennis," I said. "Were you responsible for the book-keeping and accounting for CBA?" "I was." "Did I ever ask you to put my personal expenses down as company expenses?" "Yes, you did."
494
CRIMES OF PATENT
"Did you ever acknowledge in writing a loan of seventy-five thousand dollars that I made to CBA from my SCAT royalties?" "Yes, I did." "Do you remember receiving a thirty thousand dollar loan drawn on my European account from Peter European royalty?" "Yes, I do." "Did you also receive a check for ten thousand dollars made out to me by Mr Abadi for the South American market which I endorsed to CBA?" "Yes." Lawrence," I said at last, "why would I inject cash into CBA if it wasn't to cover personal expenses?" There was a long silence. "I don't know," he said finally. "Are you going to tell me that my international royalties actually belonged to CBA?" "Well, CBA did develop the technology." "Very well," I said. "Gentlemen, I'd like to say at this point that CBA was licensed for the U.S.A. only and that, according to paragraph twenty-three of the plaintiffs' complaint, I am accused of misappropriating funds to pay for international patents in which CBA had no interest. I'd also like to remind you that patents for the same technology were filed in eleven European countries before CBA was created, that my partners declined to invest in Europe and that imported collapsible bottles of a quality which is still unmatched today were in my partners' hands before any one of them put his name to our agreement." At that moment, the arbitrators interrupted me to say that they would have to adjourn the hearing in order to beat the evening hour. "Just one last question," I asked. "Just one." "I'm sorry, Mr Touzani, said one of the arbitrators. "We have to go. You can finish questioning Mr Lawrence tomorrow but you will have to be brief." And with that they adjourned the arbitration. I was consumed with frustration: for me it already was tomorrow and I was bitterly disappointed that I hadn't been able to follow up my psychological advantage by asking Dennis about the CBI limited partnership in which he still retained a five percent equity in return for which he was supposed to have raised two million eight hundred thousand dollars. Two years earlier he had flatly denied its existence to the judge in Stockton but
495
PRIVATE SCREENING
now there was a package, that John McKinley had had delivered to the arbitrators by hand, containing a European offering of some two hundred pages and other documents signed by Dennis which testified to the continuing existence of the partnership and to his recent attempts to raise capital. I could console myself with the thought that I wouldn't be the only one to lose sleep that night. In fact I doubted whether Dennis had had any since the hearing began. He and the partners had been entirely confident that I wouldn't be able to take part in the arbitration and that their complaint would be approved and my cross-complaint rejected without any unpleasant confrontations. Little had they imagined that my ghost would return to haunt them via the telephone line. Despite the fact that I'd been effectively denied legal counsel I was pretty satisfied with my conduct of the case. The only hope I'd had, was to appeal to the arbitrators' sense of fairness and my role as the underdog must certainly have contributed to that since day one. Then, while Kevin Siebert had done his best to divert the attention of the arbitration onto the criminal charges made against me and had questioned Peter in such a way as to suggest that he and I were guilty of complicity, I, by contrast, had stuck strictly to the issues to be disputed and had avoided any attempt to indulge in dirty tricks. I hoped that I would be seen to occupy the moral high-ground and that this, together with the intrinsic strength of my arguments, would succeed in clearing my reputation. Yet the hearing was about to end and so many important points would have to be ignored for want of time most notably the amount of damage, running to millions of dollars, that my partners' actions had caused me so far and would continue to cause me in the future. De Gooijer had warned me about this situation. He still found it incredible that I had been allowed to conduct my case over the phone and more incredible still that I had stayed the course. He was also curious about the exchange of documents. "I just can't believe it," I said, when I called him the following morning to report on the night's proceedings. "I can't believe that they spent five hours going through alleged personal expenses and refused to send me copies of the documents discussed. And we're talking about a hundred thousand dollars' worth." "I thought you said that they were accusing you of misappropriating half a million," said De Gooijer. "They are," I replied. "But that includes international royalties and royalty reductions that I negotiated with licensees."
496
CRIMES OF PATENT
De Gooijer grunted his understanding. "Well, I can tell you this," he said, after a brief pause. "Unless you can prove the damage that they've caused and show that the criminal charges can be easily dispensed with, I think the arbitrators might well rule in favor of your partners if only because they consider that preserving the status quo might be preferable to handing the American company over to you." "But isn't there supposed to be a winner and a loser in this arbitration?" I asked. "With the loser picking up the winner's legal fees? I mean even if they aren't awarded damages against me, my partners must have run up a couple of hundred thousand dollars in lawyer's expenses at least." "If you lose," replied De Gooijer, "I'm afraid it won't stop at legal fees. A I understand it, you've placed a big question-mark over Dennis s Lawrence's integrity. It's my belief that, in the event of your losing, the arbitrators will feel obliged to make a sufficiently high award against you to make it worthwhile for your partners to keep an eye on him. Maybe the reasons that they'll give for doing that will be pretty farfetched but their intention will be to place Lawrence in a situation where he will be obliged to perform whether he really wants to or not. They'll consider the award a small price to pay and - look at it this way the money can only come from your share of CBA and, if your partners want to see any of it, Lawrence will have to work hard for the company." On the fifth and, as far as we knew then, the final day of the arbitration, the plaintiffs in Stockton were surprised to see Richard Anderson and van den Berghe sitting in the lobby. Of course I could easily have gotten a dozen other business associates to testify on my behalf but our remaining time was severely limited and more was not necessarily better. In fact all the evidence I needed to refute the partners' accusations and support my own claims was finally contained in their own sworn depositions. van den Berghe was there to testify that two years earlier he had possessed a two percent share in the company and had waited in that same lobby to be asked to vote on my removal as general partner. In spite of the fact that his share holding was known to my partners, the vote was held behind closed doors and he was denied access. So too were Richard Anderson and, of course, myself. I could have spent at least five days questioning Dennis Lawrence. At the end of it, even a disinterested observer would have regarded him
497
PRIVATE SCREENING
as a slightly lower life-form than a retarded amoeba and that wouldn't have been for want of concrete evidence. Under cross-examination, Dennis quickly admitted to the existence of CBI and confessed to having attempted to raise two million eight hundred thousand dollars for the company not the sort of sum that you can conveniently ignore at the best of times. He acknowledged that both the Collapsible Bottle and the Hollow Articles patents had existed at that time. Contradicting his sworn affidavits, he admitted that he did not see any conflict of interest or illegal transfer of technology between CBI and CBA. It would have been pretty stupid had he done otherwise: the signed European offering documents and business plan were right there under his nose. "Mr Lawrence," I continued, "have you made any new developments in the fieldof collapsible container technology over the past two years? Have you exhibited at, or even attended, any trade-fair in the past two years? Have you registered any new designs?" "No." "Have you made a single dollar out of any of the customers that we dealt with prior to my leaving the company?" "No." "Is Burple still in business? Is Kool Aid continuing its collapsible bottle project? Has Minute Maid shown any further interest? Have you made any new customers?" The answer was 'no' to all questions. "So, Mr Lawrence, perhaps you can tell us all what makes you think that you are a more suitable general partner than I." There was a long pause. The long-distance phone line crackled and ticked. "Your partners elected me." B this time, I was once more being constantly interrupted by one y arbitrator or another, asking me to end my cross-examination. They wanted, they said, to wrap up the arbitration that day, which seemed like a pretty faint hope to me. "I only need two more minutes," I protested. "Two more minutes, that's all." "Okay, Mr Touzani," I heard one of the arbitratorssay in a resigned voice. "Two more minutes but then that's it, huh?" "Dennis," I said. "Last summer, on the first occasion we met at the SCAT trial, was that the same day you were making your deposition for Max Hollis and his fellow plaintiffs?"
498
CRIMES OF PATENT
object," said Siebert. "The SCAT trial has no relevance to this case. Mr Touzani is only going to waste our time." "The only reason I'm bringing up the subject of the SCAT trial," I replied, "is to deal with the alleged bribery and perjury charges that were laid against me later and to which Mr Siebert has taken every possible opportunity to refer." "It's okay, Mr Touzani," I heard an arbitrator say. "You may proceed with your questions but please be brief." "Let me rephrase my question in any case," I continued. "Was it true, Mr Lawrence, that nearly eighteen months after the restraining order, the first time we spoke to each other was while your deposition was being taken for the purposes of the trial that was to take place the following week?" "That's correct," said Dennis. "And did we meet on two occasions that day? In the stairway and later in the lobby during the breaks that were allowed during the taking of your deposition?" "Yes." "And did I, at both meetings, attempt to purchase perjured testimony from you regarding the ongoing trial and this arbitration?" "You did." "So basically, Mr Lawrence, at the following three meetings which restaurant, and which were recorded, I foltook place at the lowed through with this same solicitation." "Correct." I breathed a sigh of relief. "Gentlemen," I said. "I happen to recall the last two questions that lawyers asked Mr Lawrence at the end of his deposition. The first was 'Has Mr Touzani ever lied to you?' to which he answered 'I don't recall'. The second question was 'Is Mr Touzani a dishonest man?". Mr Lawrence answered 'No'. These statements can be confirmed by consulting Mr Lawrence's deposition which resides in the same office in which you are now sitting. Now according to Mr Lawrence and the newspaper articles that have been sent to me and according to the formal complaint from the District Attorney's office which you were kind enough to fax me, it seems that I spent more than an hour of that day discussing the facts of the SCAT trial and asking Dennis to change his testimony. Does it not seem strange to you that at the end of that day Mr Lawrence still considered me to be an honest man?" I paused to gauge the effect of my words. There was silence.
499
PRIVATE SCREENING
"And may I remind you," I continued, "that asking him to change his testimony at any point after that would have been entirely useless as both he and CBA settled with the plaintiffs out of court immediately following his deposition. That is all. Thank you." van den was accepted as a late witness. He corroborated the points I had made and testified to having forfeited hundreds of thousands of dollars in work done for CBA only to be discarded. Richard Anderson told the arbitrators how Dennis had sabotaged the production of our catalog, had confiscated all copies and had refused to pay the ten thousand dollar bill an amount that was due to his suppliers and which, had I not sent him the money from Europe, would certainly have put him out of business. Richard also testified to Dennis' harassment of the tenants who had occupied my house in La Jolla: harassment that had inevitably led to their refusal to pay rent and the bank's foreclosure on the property. He confirmed that the foreclosure had coincided with my visit to San for the SCAT trial an event which had led to my soliciting Dennis' help to recover the house. These appearances had taken up what remained of the day and a new date had to scheduled for my own cross-examinationand the closing statements by Siebert and myself. After a short consultation, the arbitrators decided that only half a day would be necessary for this and all parties gave their agreement. A few days later I was on the phone again and I expected to receive a thorough grilling at Siebert's hands. He had made a great fuss about my refusal to fly to California at my own expense to have my deposition taken and had used every tactic in the book to have the arbitration postponed. I was convinced that he would now take every opportunity to corner me into supporting my partners' side of the story. In short, I was expecting a bitter fight. "Mr Touzani," he began. "Did you transfer a one percent share in CBA to your ex-wife Birgit Aleith?" "Yes, I did." "Did you subsequently purchase that share back for twelve thousand dollars?" In fact I wanted Birgit to remain a "I did, yes. Technically partner and so I specifically asked Dennis Lawrence to discard the transaction and pay her the twelve thousand dollars from the money I had loaned to CBA. If you consult the tax-returns for 1987 you will see that this was so." "That's all, Mr Touzani."
500
CRIMES OF PATENT
That was it? That was what I had been badgered to fly out to California to be asked? Two questions that were apparently irrelevant to the entire proceedings? Was there something to this I had missed? Were we living on the same planet? The arbitrators asked Siebert to proceed to his closing statement. As I expected, he reiterated all his previous arguments and maintained his forfeited U.S. payments and the internaallegations about Peter tional royalties in full disregard of Peter's personal testimony. The only unexpected feature of his closing statement was a claim that I had been removed as general partner after amending the partnership agreement to allow them to do so. This was certainly news to me but it was difficult to tell whether it was news to the arbitrators. "So what you're saying, Mr Siebert," said one of them, "is that Mr Touzani was removed after amending the partnership agreement." "Yes." I was thunderstruck. The arbitrators had wasted no time in admitting the criminal charges that had been filed against me as evidence but it had now been a month since the arbitration began and their decision regarding the admissibility of the previous drafts of the licensing agreement had still not been made. At this point, it became obvious to me that there was some form of collusion taking place between at least one of the arbitrators and the plaintiffs' law-firm. After all, why would an arbitrator deliberately emphasize a statement which had never been put forward and debated at any point in the proceedings if not to neutralize the evidence contained in those drafts that my removal had been illegal? Now, at the eleventh hour, when I ought to have been concentrating on a neat summary of my arguments, I would also have to confront this new allegation. "Gentlemen," I said. "I must say that I find Mr Siebert's statement quite unbelievable. If you consult your notes, you will see that he has consistently alleged that the Californian two-thirds majority vote clause was used to remove me. I have certainly never amended the agreement; I have never set eyes on an amended agreement and neither has my ex-lawyer. In fact, if you consult an affidavit filed by my lawyer the day after my partners voted me out, you will see that the agenda for that day, as prepared by the plaintiff's lawyer it should have been prepared by myself read that the meeting would move directly to vote me out. All of their actions up to and including that vote are a matter of public record. Unfortunately it now appears to me
501
PRIVATE SCREENING
that some of you gentlemen have been conducting off-the-record negotiations with the plaintiffs and I must say I don't like it one bit!" "It is now several weeks since this arbitration began and I am no closer to understanding what my partners gained by removing me than I was then. They have admitted that the business has effectively collapsed; Peter twenty-five million dollar contract which has been the subject of so much controversy - never happened; Peter is now bankrupt as a result of the restraining order; Dennis Lawrence has admitted that they haven't acquired a single new product or customer since my departure nor has he invented or filed for protection on any new design or technology since I left." "I think you will notice a considerable difference if you look at what I have accomplished during the same period. I've filed for eight additional inventions of which more than half have been issued; foreign licensees have invested millions of dollars to furthering my achievements in the U.S.; I have created an advertising campaign that reached millions of people. Significantly, I accomplished all of this despite continuous harassment from Dennis Lawrence." "And what of Dennis? The concern uppermost in his mind seems to have been taking over my house. I have no idea what the outcome of the criminal case will be but I can assure you, gentlemen, that I would do a far better job of exploiting the United States patents from inside a jail cell than Dennis could ever hope to do on the outside. Thank you."
I was happy that the arbitration was finally over. I did derive some satisfaction from the idea that I had defended myself fairly effectively against my partners' allegations but I was disappointed in not having had sufficient time to demonstrate the full extent of the pointless damage they had done. I think it was this utter pointlessness of their actions that appalled me most. If they'd made a clean sweep of everything and come out of it with billions in the bank then the whole sorry story would at least have been understandable I might have even felt some sort of grudging admiration for a crime well committed. But, on the whole, they had gained nothing more than they had already possessed two years earlier and had waved goodbye to any possibility of a rosier future. Both by Dennis' own admission and according to published articles, business would have stood at around one billion dollars today but the partners had decided that they were happier that books were showing a positive balance of six thousand dollars. We had built up a capacity to produce nearly two hundred million
502
CRIMES OF PATENT
containers a year and could have generated an equal amount of dollars licensing. B contrast, no more than one hundred thouy through sand containers were manufactured in the two years following the restraining order less than 0.05% of the production capacity I had established. But at least, for better or worse, it was all over. The only thing to do now was wait out the thirty days until the verdict. Absurdly, given that so much had been at stake, the thing that hurt me the most during the arbitration proceedings was the news that Dennis Lawrence was now living in my house. The idea of his lying on my bed and watching TV, of his sprawling his bulk across my sofa or working at my oak desk turned my stomach. Had Dennis succeeded in getting away with hi-jacking my business I might finally have learned to live with it but his appropriation of my house was a massive humiliation. To add further insult, he had not just taken the real-estate and the furniture but obliged me to pay for it all over again. There was some sort of perfection in that it was a sick, perverse perfection but it was perfection nonetheless. All the same, there was a change in me. With the arbitration over, became more relaxed. I started to visit friends again, went bike-riding and took long walks with Fenny. At least, I told myself, I had prevailed in one way: the partners had not succeeded in shutting me up. The worst scenario I could imagine was one in which CBA would be allowed to function under Dennis' control. A a mere employee of s the company he would have no real motive to perform but if a large award was made against me the partners would force him to do so. I would still own eighty percent of the company even though it would never bring me in another dollar and my international business would be left intact. After all, the restraining order specifically forbade Dennis and CBA from interfering in that. Not that it had stopped them before. If judgement went against me I would just have to reconcile myself to the fact that my American business, as far as containers was concerned, was totally lost. If I wanted to continue to do business in the U.S., I would have to concentrate on other applications. I could take comfort from the knowledge that at no time had either Dennis or his lawyers even hinted at claiming international territories as their own. It would frankly have been far more than they could have handled, consideringthe trouble that they had experienced in trying to steal the home market. They had done their best to manipulate the agreement to get rid of me but on the subject of territories it was all too specific:
503
PRIVATE SCREENING
the inventor licensed CBA to do business within the borders of the United States alone. On the other hand, there seemed to be a reasonable chance that I would win the arbitration. Naturally my first action in that eventuality would be to put Dennis on the street with all possible haste not that he would wait for me to do so. But Dennis wasn't dumb. He still owned a five percent equity in CBI and, if I knew him, he would immediately make a move against the U.S. operation. Three weeks after the end of the arbitration, in the middle of the night, the fax machine began to whirr. Fenny and I heard it but neither of us stirred from our bed. A the minutes passed with no interruption s in the noise from downstairs, it was pretty clear that the arbitration award had arrived in Holland. Finally Fenny could stand the suspense no longer. She got up and went downstairs. She was gone a long time. I didn't like her silence. I expected that at some point she would scream with excitement but all I heard was the constant noise of the fax machine and then absolute quiet. When I finally heard her footfall on the stairs, I knew she was bringing bad news. "I'm not sure what this means," she said as she handed me the pile of paper. "I can see some mention of half a million dollars but I don't know who pays who." I shuffled through the papers to the last line of the last page. Including legal fees, punitive damages and misappropriated funds, an award had been entered against me on behalf of my partners for a little more than half a million dollars. There was no explanation as to where these misappropriated funds had come from and, if they had come in part or whole from my international royalties, I failed to see any mention of the international market being awarded to CBA. Thank God. That would have been too much: my European patents had been filed long before CBA was created and my father had paid the expenses. In fact, as I examined the award more carefully, I saw that it confirmed the clauses in the restraining order forbidding CBA from interfering with my international business. On the other hand, if the misappropriated funds represented my personal expenses, most of that money had gone to Jeims Deimen to safeguard my international filings and that certainly made no sense to me. Back on the minus side, the U.S. market was definitively closed to me. But associated with this was another contradiction. The restraining
504
CRIMES OF PATENT
order had stipulated that CBA was only allowed to deal in containers and yet the arbitrators had awarded the entire Hollow Articles patent, lock, stock and barrel, to CBA. Apparently they must have agreed with Siebert's claim that CBA was suffering from having no clear title. I was furious. How could a patent of such broad scope, a patent that could be applied to hundreds of different objects, be given away so thoughtlessly? I had a million dollars worth of expandable lamps and accessories sitting in a warehouse in Casablanca, awaiting their debut on the U.S. market. The product bore no relation to containers and could not be accessed by CBA but, since it utilized the patent that was property, no one was allowed to commercialize it. now This decision to give away the Hollow Articles patent was typical of those who have no knowledge of the highly specialized field of patents and patenting. It constituted a clear waste of intellectual property and went against every principle of patent law. The only really positive thing to come out of the award was a formal acknowledgement of van den two percent equity. It was nice of them but not much consolation to Al. Both of us knew that it had no commercial value whatsoever as long as Dennis Lawrence was in charge. Something that came as little surprise was that my house in La Jolla was now considered company property. This decision was consistent with others in the award in that, having given possession of my property to CBA, the arbitrators still wanted me to refund the money used to purchase it. The house was fully-furnished and accounted for over thirty thousand dollars which, aside from international filings, constituted the bulk of the alleged personal expenses that CBA supposedly paid for. Similarly, without admitting that international royalties were solely mine, the arbitrators appeared to have considered that the one hundred and twenty thousand dollar loan I made to CBA had never happened and that the amount was still due. As far as they were concerned, CBA could have their cake and eat it too. The following morning I immediately wrote a letter to Mr Tick at the office of the American Arbitration Association in San Francisco in which I expressed my great dissatisfaction with the award and drew attention to the arbitrators' ignorance in the field of patents. I would have understood, I wrote, if I had been forced to issue an exclusive license to CBA for the Hollow Articles patent as it applied to containers only I had done the same thing with the SCAT partners in the past. What I could not condone was the appropriation of the entire patent
505
PRIVATE SCREENING
in order to provide 'clear title' and then its limitation to containers only. Any competent patent attorney would have hit the roof had he seen such an award. The pretext for it appeared to be that CBA had supposedly invested in research and development on the patent while, in reality, the patent had been filed six months before any such R D took place and this manipulation of facts I protested most strongly. The letter was my last official comment regarding the dispute. I had gone beyond the point of being disillusioned with the American legal system I was just plain sick of it. Even the idea of conducting further business in the U.S. filled me with nausea. There was more to it than that: I decided that I would take the first opportunity to get out of the business completely. The sooner I could find someone who would take over my international interests at a liquidation price the better. It was time to count the cost. I had spent every last cent I had on the arbitration and borrowed nearly twenty thousand dollars from the bank on top of that. My European credit cards had finally been suspended and were now in the hands of debt-collection agencies. Our only source of income was Fenny's modest salary. I had failed to pay the last two months rent on the house in Uithoorn and eviction was looming. Fenny and I started packing. It was now Year Zero.
506
26 . DAVID
As anxious as I'd been to rid myself of my business, it was only a matter of time before my sense of responsibility reasserted itself. All of my European patents were still pending and the annuity fees were now due. Several of them were to be re-examined by the European patent office once I and my Dutch patent attorneys had ironed out the objections. Over the previous two years, keeping these patents alive had always been my chief concern. Funds that could have been put to more practical and immediate uses, such as paying the rent and buying food, had often been channeled into what Fenny had come to regard as a money-pit. After so many sacrifices had been made by both of us, I didn't have the heart to let my patents lapse now. But keeping them alive required money and where was that to come from? My bank had rescued me for the last time and my overdraft now stood at fifty thousand dollars. And what about the next month and the month after that? Maybe I'd succeed in licensing the jerrycan to one of the European companies. After all, a great deal of interest had been shown in it since the packaging fair in Paris.Jacobs in Germany and a Dutch plastics factory were working hard to develop a five liter version for motor-oil which had meant my shuttling back and forth pretty much non-stop to assist them. Finally, however, I between Utrecht and could not count on this as a source of income. Luck played too great a part in it and luck had been in short supply lately. What was certain was that unless money materialized from some source pretty quickly my European patents would have to be abandoned and the international market would be completely destroyed. With no further form of patent protection, my inventions would be freely available to anyone who wanted to exploit them. But would that really be such a big loss? Wasn't it just the Big White Capitalist Way? As far as I could see, it seemed be official policy
507
PRIVATE SCREENING
in the United States to deal with patent law and patent disputes in the loosest manner possible because giving an unbreachable monopoly to one individual, as the inventor, would cut across the principles of free competition. Why not grant patents that dealt with similar subjects and similar ideas? Given the imperfections of the legal system, wasn't it, in fact, a good idea to allow similar technologies to coexist? At least someone would stand a chance of successfully exploiting them. In many cases, it was not just a question of two or three patents being similar in certain respects but of the technologies actually overThis overlapping, as I see it, is intended to compensate for the possibility of a patent being tied up in court for the duration of its existence. Normally I shy away from what might be termed 'conspiracy theories' but now I am convinced that the Patent Office employs this duplication or overlapping as a regular strategy. This is not so farfetched as it appears when you consider that there is still a great deal of dispute among experts as to the relative value of protecting intellectual property and allowing unrestrained competition. Opinions on the subject range from one extreme to the other. Unrestrained competition, and the inadequate protection that allows it, may be all well and good in the broadest economic sense but where does the inventor fit in? Anybody who believes that technologies are always invented for the greatest good of the greatest number is seriously naive. We have all heard stories of the selfless, dedicated scientist working towards a breakthrough which will benefit humanity at large but, at the other end of the scale, one should not ignore those thousands of scientists who are dedicated to making profits for multinational corporations - corporations which will certainly protect their new technology from competition if they can. Take away the protection and you take away the greatest motive for innovation: a monopoly assuring commercial success. It is, I think, a fear of what the absence of this incentive might lead to which accounts for the present hypocritical double-standard exercised by the Patent Office: on the one hand they wish to encourage the inventor by dangling the carrot of potential wealth under his nose and on the other hand they wish to encourage the open competition that derives from a lack of exclusive protection. I had believed in my rights as an inventor. I had accepted the responsibility and regarded it as my crusade in life. I even accepted the fact that I was alone in that. How had I struggled for so long, achieved so much from nothing and still failed to get even a 'thank More than that, I had actually been punished for having tried to sustain and
508
CRIMES OF PATENT
develop my inventions - they had been snatched out of my hands and entrusted to unscrupulous individuals who had no interest in innovation and no capacity to innovate. But these individuals were respected members of the community, pillars of society. How could they be wrong? How could they mismanage, lie or cheat? They had, when all was said and done, the conventional American qualifications of success. If I had very little money I must surely be motivated by a desire to acquire it. They, having already assured themselves comfortable life-styles, couldn't possibly want more. No, it was quite clear: now that the inventor had done his work, the invention itself should be put into the hands of those who were undoubtedly more able to exploit it. It was this sense of injustice, this deep dissatisfaction with the attitude of government, that finally persuaded me to speak out. I had been denied fame and fortune and, in a way, I could accept that what you've never had, you never miss, after all. But I had also been denied my self-respect which is one of the inalienable rights of any man or woman. Perhaps I might be able to recover some small amount by educating others, or at least by warning them of the dangers that I'd had to confront. I decided to call David Wray. He was a writer who took in some translation work through a neighboring agency and it was he who had translated my Bouteille book into English when I had wanted to show it to the arbitrators. That little effort to convince them of the benefits of Touzani against Lawrence had cost me several thousand dollars and had been in vain. David seemed the logical choice to convey my struggle to the American public: he was familiar with both my personal history and my products. What was more, he was English and I wanted a book that was written with a foreign accent. I have a foreign accent. Many Americans have a foreign accent. The trouble is that when any one of us writes a book, the accent disappears. In all of my years in America I'm sure that few people failed to notice the way I spoke. Most of the time they were polite enough not to comment on it but occasionally, just occasionally, whenever I least needed it, it would lead to discrimination. I went to meet David in his apartment in a small, nondescript town straggling the northern arm of the river He had no idea of the disastrous financial situation I was in and I was certainly in no hurry to tell him about it. As far as he was concerned I had been one of the few clients to have paid him for his work on time and that, and
509
PRIVATE SCREENING
the fact that my book was to take a novel form, was enough to interest him. David was a professional novelist, although translations provided a more dependable income. As soon as I entered David's apartment, I met a very familiar sight. His two year-old son, Owen, was peering around the side of his leg. Toys were scattered around the floor. "Excuse the mess," he said. "I'm afraid you're going to have to put up with this if we're to work together." enjoy it," I said, tousling Owen's mop of bright red hair. "My son's about the same age." "Why don't you bring him along?" said David. "He might distract Owen's attention for a minute or two." "I wish I could," I replied. There would be plenty of time to explain that later. It was to take David several weeks to reconstruct the early part of my story from Bouteille and continue from where the French book left off. Just as he was beginning to entertain the notion that this might not be such a difficult task after all, I turned up with a large box containing thousands of documents relating to who said what, why and when. Since David was rapidly coming to the conclusion that if he were eventually to see some money from the project it would be later rather than sooner, I knew that it was imperative that he felt confident that my story was true as I believe it to be and that there were enough depositions and letters to correct my memory should it fail me. In fact it took David a surprisingly short time to appreciate the injustice of what I'd been through. He only had to read Dr Thomas' deposition to see that it bluntly contradicted the allegations made in my partners' complaint. "Incredible," he said. "This is an official legal deposition, I suppose?" "Sure," I replied. "Doesn't it look like it?" "I wouldn't know. To tell you the truth, it's the first time I've ever seen one. What I can't understand is why so little attention seems to have been paid to it. I mean anyone can make a complaint, can't they? Whether it's true or untrue is usually established in front of a judge. In your case it would seem that more credence has been given to a series of allegations than to a legally-takendeposition. Is this normal practice in American courts?" "It's a long story, David." It turned out to be a much longer story than either of us imagined.
510
CRIMES OF PATENT
It was not the best of times for David to take on a project of such an interior designer, was going immense proportions: his wife through considerable turmoil with the company she worked for and could find herself laid off at any moment. Translations that he could not afford to turn down had to be done during the night so that the daytime could be left free. It was crucial for him to collect as much information as he could as quickly as possible before I left the country, or the face of the earth. "I can see why you succeeded in business," he once said, grudgingly. "You have quite a knack of persuading people to do things against their better judgement." My financial situation would have driven most people to drink: not that they would have been able to afford it. With the money I owed to various companies, to the bank, to credit organizations, on my telephone bill and mostly to the Laraquis, my debts stood at around two hundred thousand dollars. Even my patent attorneys were now threatening to withdraw and stop all further payments on my patents. The latter I regarded as something that had to be rectified at any cost. By now, Fenny and I had left the house in Uithoorn and were established in her new one-bedroom apartment. It was within walkingdistance of her parents' house and also, due to one of those strange quirks of fate that casts serious doubts on the existence of God, above my bank. Now every time I turned into the driveway, I had to duck my head as I passed in front of the manager's office. I guess any neighbor witnessing this sight must have thought I had some weird nervous affliction. Fortunately the bank manager never cottoned onto the fact that one of his most troublesome debtors lived directly above his office. Had he done so, there is no doubt in my mind that I would have awakened one morning to find that my Mercedes had been repossessed. What was more, Fenny had to live with exactly the same insecurity. Why, you might ask, did we chose to buy an apartment in such a location? Good question. The answer, of course, is that when the sale was negotiated we'd had no idea that only two months later we would be flat broke. Now, Fenny's salary covered the mortgage repayments and the usual bills but there was nothing left to pay for the telephone and fax machine. My conversations with my partners in Germany, Yehuda in Israel or Danny in South Africa had to be restricted to a bare minimum. Being an illegal resident in Holland, I had no
511
PRIVATE SCREENING
social security number and was forbidden to work in the country. My only possible source of income would be to work 'underground' for whoever was willing to risk employing me. The last time I had been employed by a European company had been several years before the founding of CBA when I had worked as a customer engineer for Siemens. In spite of their size, they'd had to go through weeks of negotiation with the local immigration officers before my status was legalized. Finally their persistence had paid off. If that had worked in the past, might it not work again? I had Fenny write up my It didn't look too impressive. Seven years previously, my profession suddenly changed from that of customer engineer to marketing director for collapsible bottles. In fact I had been working for as long on my inventions as on all my earlier jobs together. Was I now a salesman or a technician? I was asked the same question when I visited the offices of Technico, an employment agency in Amsterdam. They spent several weeks trying to fix me up but without success. I didn't speak Dutch and that was one basic qualification that was common to all jobs. It was Fenny's mother who came to the rescue. Together with her husband, Liesbeth had once owned a dry-cleaning business until they'd been forced to sell up because of his bad health. Now she supplemented their income by ironing shirts at one dollar a time for the company that had bought them out. I had spent much of the last two years chatting to her as she set her iron to automatic-pilot and worked away. I had joked about my ability to do the job better and faster. Suddenly, she gave me the opportunity to put her money where my mouth had been. When it came to shirts, she was, indeed, unbeatable. Fortunately she had a weakness: pants. One pair of pants took her almost as long as ten shirts and even then the creases would point outwards. I had found myself a place in the market. It wasn't a pants day. My quota was twenty shirts. Outside, terdam was attempting to swelter in the spring sunshine. "You want to know something, Liesbeth?" I asked, with the iron poised in my hand. "I did seventeen shirts yesterday and you only paid me for fifteen. You owe me eight guilder." "No, I don't," she replied, putting on a serious face. "Fifteen I paid you for and fifteen you did." "Seventeen."
512
CRIMES OF PATENT
"Okay," she said, smiling. "You win. But that means no dessert tonight." It was a serious threat. Fenny and I, unable to feed ourselves, had been relying on her parents to feed us. Perhaps things would change in April when Bericap renewed their option agreement. "Would you like some coffee?" she asked. "As long as you don't charge me for it." Suddenly there was a familiar The fax machine was rolling off a letter. I recognized Danny Friedman's handwriting. I couldn't reach you by phone, it said. Please call me immediately. I have good news. Good news? What could he possibly tell me that would be good news? Was it April Fool's Day already? "Yes, Danny," I said. "You'll have to be quick because I can't afford to make this call." "You can't afford not to make it," he replied. "Have you ever heard of a company called Macsteel?" "Sounds like a very tough hamburger," I said. "No." "It's only the biggest privately-owned steel company in the world," said Danny. "And they want to buy you out." "Do they indeed," I said, without much enthusiasm. "They won't want to when they hear about my legal problems in the States. They'll want to hide on the other side of the world." "They already are on the other side of the world," he said. "They're South African. And they know about your problems. They say they can handle it and I believe them. Recently they bought up a small company simply because it had legal claims against a larger one. They ended up making two hundred million dollars out of the deal." I knew that Danny tended to exaggerate at times but this seemed too much even for him. I just hoped he was right. Danny went on to tell me that I should expect a fax from Jeffrey Samson, Macsteel's marketing director and the son of the company's chairman. "If you'll take my advice," he said, "you'll act confident and don't show any sign of weakness especially when it comes to money problems. It's your best guarantee of getting a good deal." However, I knew that companies of that size would sooner or later find everything out and I knew I had to be completely honest. The following day there was no faxed letter. The phone rang instead and I found myself talking down a long-distance line to Jeffrey Samson in person. He was full of praise for my achievements, sympa-
513
PRIVATE SCREENING
thized with my difficulties and offered to fly me down to South Africa for further negotiations. Fax messages continued to come in over the next few days to confirm our arrangements. Suddenly everything was moving too fast for me. Did I dare to believe that Macsteel would buy me out? Was all this for real? Well, I said to myself, if it wasn't, at least it would give me an experience comparable to the one I'd had in Israel. I called David to tell him the news and that we wouldn't be able to work for the next few days. "Think positive, Bill," he said. "You might just come home with an agreement and all your worries will be over. It'll also make a great ending for the book." Spring really did seem to have arrived. Bericap called from Germany. Their option agreement had expired the day before and, as I waited to be connected to Mr Krautkramer, I expected the news that they had decided to abandon their plans to develop the tamper-proof closure. If that was the case, as I was sure it would be, I wanted to ask him if it was the result of interference from Dennis Lawrence. "Mr Touzani," came Krautkramer's voice over a crackly line. "I'm sorry not to have contacted you sooner but I couldn't get in touch. My secretary has just reminded me of our deadline to renew the option. I'm calling you from the United States and I must tell you that we've made major progress with your invention. In fact we have secured the commitment of one of the largest German customers we know of." It was unbelievable. I hung up the phone and gave a whoop of joy. "What is it, Bill?" asked Fenny excitedly. "Screw the bottles!" I yelled. "Screw containers and screw Dennis! Closures here we come!" Fenny gave a scream of delight and threw her arms around me. "You know what I'm going to do, Fen?" I asked. "I'm going to start Collapsible Closures of America! Krautkramer's license restricts him to Europe he's going to help me set it up!" My flight to South Africa took me right down the east of the continent. The plane took off from Amsterdam at midnight and by the early hours of the morning we had left the Sahara desert behind us. The dawn light revealed that we were now flying over soft hills, rolling grasslands and sparse trees. It wasn't until Kenya that I saw any sign of agriculture and then the fields seemed to be thrown about at random below me.
514
CRIMES OF PATENT
As we entered South African airspace I immediately noticed how organized the fields had become. They were neatly divided and geometrically arranged. Huge irrigation sprays cast shiny circles like weird extra-terrestrial monsters. The landscape looked like California. The plane landed at Johannesburg, I stepped out into brilliant sunshine and followed my fellow passengers to the terminal building. It was a beautiful day with a clear cloudless sky. It wasn't hot just comfortable enough to walk without a jacket. Jeffrey Samson had said that he was going to meet me there in person and that he would be holding a Macsteel card outside the customs checkpoint. Identifying me wouldn't really be a problem anyway he Bouteille, and, therefore, did have copies of the French book, pictures of me. Well, I didn't see a sign. I found myself on the airport concourse watching my fellow travelers hurrying for taxis and buses. It was only a few minutes later that I saw three men in suits - all in their early thirties who were clearly giving me the once-over. Finally, they approached and one of them a tall, well-built man with dark hair introduced himself as Jeffrey. Sandwiched between them, I felt like DArtagnan with the three musketeers. As we left the airport I knew that the sign had not been there they had wanted to watch how I would behave in an unpredictable situation. We reached their Mercedes. Jeffrey, wanting to give me the place of honor in the front passenger seat, was slightly surprised when I walked round to the driver's door. "We drive on the left here," he said gently. For the fifteen minutes it took to drive into downtown Jo'burg I must have ducked under the dashboard a dozen times. Every time we turned a corner, I was sure that we were going to head into the opposing traffic. So this is what it was like to live in England. The Sun City Hotel was a high-rise in the center of town. Macsteel had permanent suites there for their guests. At this time in the afternoon I was neither hungry nor tired and I didn't object when my hosts invited themselves for a drink in my suite. They were clearly anxious to get down to business. "Well, Bill," Jeffrey began in his soft voice. "We know that Danny owns the exclusive rights here and I don't think that purchasing them from him will present too much of a problem. It would be useful to conduct consumer tests here in South Africa before we
515
PRIVATE SCREENING
outside but I'm sure you're aware that this is a very small market compared to what you could give us in the rest of the world." As part of the deal for my trip to South Africa, I'd had to undertake not to enter into discussions with any other company. The agreement between Macsteel and Danny Freidman was not yet finalized and Samson was afraid that he might have other companies waiting in the wings for me. Although Danny was aware of my undertaking, he still phoned me that evening to find out how things were going. He told me that he was disappointed that Macsteel had refused to meet some of his demands and that he'd had a better offer from a company by the name of Hekro - a major distributor of heavy machinery in South Africa. "You hear this static on the line?" he asked abruptly. "Yes." "Sounds like I'm from Timbuctu, right?" "I guess so." "Your phone's bugged," he said bluntly. "At least it's probably bugged. I'd bet my bottom dollar this call is being taped. That's why I don't want to go into any details unless it's over a public phone." I was shocked at what he said but I wasn't going to say more about it if he was right. Later that day I took a short walk in the area around the hotel. It appeared to be located in a mostly black neighborhood and reminded me of some downtown areas of U.S. cities. The architecture was distinctly American in appearance but I soon discovered that when the working day was finished the area became gradually but almost exclusively black. As in the larger American cities, it was not recommended to venture out in the evenings since there was a high likelihood that you would end up mugged, or worse. But the big difference here was that you would not necessarily be attacked for what you had but for what you were. The next morning at eight-thirty sharp, Jeffrey and his two associates who had turned out to be brothers called Sean and Ron were waiting outside my hotel to drive me to Macsteel's headquarters. As soon as we turned off the highway in the industrial section of Johannesburg, Jeffrey began to point out immense factories - buildings that stretched for hundreds of yards. As we approached them, I saw swarms of employees, mostly black, going about their business. The entire complex belonged to Macsteel and it was truly awe-inspiring. My feelings were reinforced by Jeffrey, who made no pretence of modesty.
516
CRIMES OF PATENT
"I think you already know that we are the largest privately-owned steel company in the world," he said. "This company has no shareholders to account to." "Which means," Ron interjected, "that you are talking directly to the boss." The full extent of Macsteel's size and strength only became clear when I was given a tour of a large conference-room in which there was an exhibition dealing with the company's achievements. I had never before in my life talked to people of such wealth and power and I couldn't deny that they had every right to be proud of their accomplishments. I was taken to the office of Jeffrey's father. It was a big, airy room at the end of which was an old wooden desk. A few battered leather couches were scattered about. On the wall was a full-sized Israeli flag. It was clear to me now that in spite of their huge factories, the company kept a low profile and that, although they had accumulated vast wealth, it wasn't the result of publicity. I had seen photographs of Jeffrey's father in the main entrance but in the flesh he looked much older. His features, however, were strong. He reminded me of Gregory Peck. Our meeting was brief: he shook my hand and told me that it was a pleasure to meet me and gave his blessing to our negotiations. Soon after my arrival, I had been given an agenda detailing the entire program for my stay all the way down to signing an agreement. In Jeffrey's ultra-modern office, we sat down around the conference table and I laid down all of the legal documents establishing my license to CBA which restricted the company to the United States and to collapsible bottles. I then outlined the hundred or so other patents that had been filed around the world for closures, jerrycans and other products. They were clearly impressed and were quick to acknowledge the enormous potential that these patents and technologies represented. It was now up to them to show that they were worthy of the challenge. We had lunch and I was driven directly to a mold-maker. It was there that I learned that Macsteel produced more than steel. For one thing, they were concerned in the production of high-technology electronic equipment. Many of the molds that were under construction, or had already been produced, were destined for the casings of computerized products and related accessories. From the mold-makers we took the highway to Pretoria, the capital. There we entered another huge complex which could be seen from
517
PRIVATE SCREENING
miles away. This was the C.S.I.R. the biggest source of technical innovation in Africa and one of the foremost research facilities in the world. We were met by the director who acted very deferentially towards Jeffrey and personally took us on a tour of the center. The employed some four thousand technicians. It was a hive of activity and it seemed that every one of its engineering areas hosted its quota of MIT graduates and world-famous scientists. The work in progress there seemed to involve everything from testing household products to topsecret work on microelectronics and defense systems. I was led to yet another conference room where a team of top researchers and plastics engineers had been assembled. After introductions were completed, I gave a talk on the current state of collapsible technology and its potential for the future. It seemed to generate great interest: my audience asked some very specific, searching questions and, though they were to give a full written report on their opinions later, they immediately indicated their willingness to pursue research. They weren't the only ones to be impressed: the research facility was so modern and well-equipped that, as we left, I expressed my interest in being a part of it. "I can't see any problem there," said Jeffrey. "Once you've transferred the rights to all your patents and licenses to us, I could certainly arrange for you to supervise developments here as an employee of the company." I might have known. Nothing seemed too much of a problem for Jeffrey Samson. I had dreamed of working with people like him ever since I received my first U.S. patent. It was only a pity that we hadn't met a few years earlier. "You seem to carry a lot of weight around here," I observed, gesturing towards the center. "The way people act towards you, one would almost think you were packing a gun under your coat." "Well, you're right," he admitted. "Although not about the gun, of course. Macsteel donates millions of dollars to this center every year. Being a non-profit-making organization, it needs all the financial support it can get and we do cooperate on many different programs." The trip to C.S.I.R. concluded our day and what a day it had been! By the time I was dropped back at my hotel, I felt too tired to contemplate anything beyond dinner and bed. Unfortunately, I hadn't been in my room for very long before the telephone rang. It was Danny. Would I like to have dinner with him and his family that evening? I was to be in South Africa for only another two days and I had no
518
CRIMES OF PATENT
choice but to accept. An hour later Danny picked me up and we drove out to the suburbs. The suburbs of Johannesburg pretty much resembled those that you'd find in most American cities. The houses that I saw seemed large and spacious with neat gardens and well-tended lawns. The only glaring difference was that most of the homes were surrounded by high, wire fences - each one bearing a notice warning the unwelcome guest of the unpleasant consequences that would attend any attempt to breach them. I heard dogs barking although there were none in evidence in the street. They certainly weren't just pets. "You seem to go in for a high measure of security round here," I said, as Danny's car purred past more steel-clad gardens. "We need it," he replied. "This is an all-white area." It also turned out to be an all-Jewish area. I knew that acoording to apartheid, ethnic groups were obliged to live together but I'd never imagined that that extended beyond the color of your skin. At Danny's house I was introduced to his wife Karen and their two kids of five and eight years old. The kids were beautiful and bore no resemblance to Danny whatsoever. "The milkman's skipped town," he said. Although he was joking, I began to wonder whether there wasn't an element of truth there somewhere. Danny and Karen seemed to have no hang-ups about discussing marital infidelity and Karen's conversation was sprinkled with references to Danny's sleeping around, which she appeared to regard as a normal way of life. Danny, in his soft, slightly-worried, Woody Allen manner, protested these accusations more as if it were expected of him than out of any real conviction. But the atmosphere was pleasant enough and after dinner Danny took me out to their garage and showed me a ten-liter-sized collapsible container that he'd developed with my assistance via the telephone and which was already on sale in South Africa. By this time, I was more than ready to call it a day. Unfortunately Danny was not. Having successfully maneuvered himself out of the house, he had every intention of staying out. He bundled me back into his car and we were soon driving along a busy downtown street which seemed, as far as I could tell, to be one of Johannesburg's yuppie hangouts. Mixed in with the young and upwardly-mobile were a number of very drunken Afrikanerswhose favored way of letting off steam seemed to be getting smashed and chasing their wives around the street.
519
PRIVATE SCREENING
We parked the car and set off on a tour of the neighborhood bars. In view of what I'd been told of apartheid, I was very surprised to see a large number of black girls in virtually every one of them. "It's like this everywhere in South Africa," said Danny. "Just about every black girl is for sale. They leave their offices at five o'clock and then stand on the sidewalk waiting to be picked up." I shook my head sadly. "Do you think we could head back to my hotel now?" I asked. "I'm pretty bushed." "Just one more stop," he said. I really want you to see this." Reluctantly, I followed him back to the car. A few minutes later we pulled into the parking lot of an impressive building which turned out to be yet another bar. Inside, there was a full mix of black and white or at least 'full' if you ignore the fact that all the blacks were young girls and all the whites were middle-aged men waiting their chance to load two or three of them into their Mercedes and Jaguars and speed off into the night. It was quite clear, however, that this was one of Danny's favorite watering-holes clearer yet because he spent so much time denying it. Danny ordered another beer and I matched him in Perrier water. I could see that he'd already had a little too much. "I used to work for the Israeli secret service," he said, looking less like a Jewish James Bond than you could ever imagine. "The He glanced quickly to right and left and nodded. "The reason I'm telling you this," he continued, "is so you'll believe me when I tell you that Macsteel is spying on you." "You told me about the phone taps," I reminded him. "There's more to it than that," he said, smiling. "Even when you have breakfast in the morning, I can assure you that there's a guy at a nearby table taking notes. Every conversation you have in your room is monitored. When you go to the john, just make sure you have your pants on when you come out." "You sure about this?" "I'd bet my life on it." "But why? What do they expect to gain?" Danny shrugged. "Who knows. First you get the information and then you find a use for it. Maybe they won't use it at all. Maybe they'll use it to blackmail you."
520
CRIMES OF PATENT
"Blackmail me? That'll be the day! First they'd have to find something to blackmail me with - and that wouldn't be easy - and, besides, why go to all that trouble? I'm small potatoes as far as they're concerned." However, I couldn't afford not to take Danny seriously. A soon as s I got back to my room, even though it was well past midnight, I checked it over thoroughly for bugs or cameras. I even opened up the telephone receiver. I found nothing - the only suspicious traces were some fingerprints o n the ceiling next to the inspection hatch. I climbed onto a chair and opened it. There was no sign of a microphone or a miniature transmitter - only darkness. But I had suddenly realized just how easy it was to bug a room. Presumably the people employed for this sort of job were experts and it would certainly take another expert to detect their handiwork. I couldn't help remembering the last time I had been a victim of bugging and how radically and disastrously it had changed my life. One thing was certain: Macsteel retained my hotel suite on a permanent basis and, if there was some sort of bugging device in it, it wouldn't be anything so clumsy as a microphone in a vase of flowers. The next day at eight-thirty in the morning, my three musketeers once more showed up at the hotel and escorted me to their office. We spent what remained of the morning drafting an agreement, then ordered lunch and continued work into the afternoon and early evening. The final agreement involved the transfer of all of my patents and all of the licenses that I had granted in the past to Macsteel. A new corporation was to be formed for the purposes of developing and exploiting my inventions in which I would hold a thirty percent equity and from which I would receive a guaranteed minimum income of one hundred and fifty thousand rand a year. Were I to settle in South Africa, this salary would translate into an equal amount of U.S. dollars: anywhere else in the world, given an unfavorable rate of exchange, it would amount to a little over forty thousand bucks. That was roughly was paying me for the South African marthe same as Danny ket alone but by now I knew enough about Macsteel to recognize that a thirty percent equity in the new corporation could well represent a fortune. I crawled into my bed that night determined not to leave it for six months. Much had been accomplished however. Sean was now to
521
PRIVATE SCREENING
incorporate the revisions we had made and produce a final agreement to be signed the next day, prior to my departure. On the last day of my stay I was picked up by the three of them once more - this time, thankfully, at noon - and driven directly to Jeffrey Samson's home. We lunched on pizza and then signed the agreement. A few hours later, I was sitting on a plane bound for Holland with a twenty hour flight ahead of me. I felt very satisfied with the way everything had gone. I had finally gotten rid of all my inventions and I knew they would be safe in the hands of a man of Jeffrey Samson's caliber. It would need a man of steel to stand up to Dennis Lawrence's continued and relentless harassment. The agreement took the form of a sixty day option that would then become permanent. In the meantime, Macsteel was to contact its in-house lawyer in New York to confirm the status of my legal disputes in America. Back in Amsterdam, I had hardly begun to relax and recover from my flight before the phone rang again. It was my brother Sam. I hadn't seen or heard of Sam since I'd used his apartment in San during the SCAT trial. I knew that by now he would have finished his university studies but if he had any plans of coming to Holland and staying with us I was determined to dissuade him. I simply wasn't in the mood. If he insisted, he could sleep in the motor home but that was going to be the full extent of my fraternal generosity. "It's a very clear line," I observed, "considering the distance." "What distance?"said Sam. "I'm in Amsterdam." "Amsterdam?" I exclaimed. "When did you get here?" "Three months ago." "You're kidding!" I said. "Why didn't you call me before?" "I thought about it but I knew you'd be in a lousy mood. We've never got on too well together, have we?" guess not," I said. "But you're still my brother." I decided to drive downtown and meet him. As I entered the bar of the American Hotel, I saw a man wearing cowboy-boots, a stetson, jeans and a vest. It was Sam. "What's with the John Wayne outfit?" I asked. "You auditioning for a part in a movie or something?" "Nope," replied Sam, tugging the brim of his hat over his eyes. "These are my work clothes." "Are you trying to tell me you punch cattle here?"
522
CRIMES OF PATENT
"You could look at it like that. Why don't you come and see where I work? explain all about it on the way there." But he didn't explain it immediately. We walked across the city towards the Central Station and I began to think that he might be some new kind of railroad worker - maybe someone to act as a guide for American tourists. It wasn't until we got to the Oudezijds Achterburgwal that I began to suspect the truth. "Wait a minute," I said. "I know this place." I certainly wasn't alone in that. Just about every tourist who visits Amsterdam has been to the Oudezijds Achterburgwal even if they don't know it by name. It is the center of the city's red-light district and virtually every building is devoted to the exploitation of sex in one form or another. Finally, having run the gauntlet of a hundred cosy windows, each with its cosy hooker sitting in it, we stopped outside a club which went under the prosaic but entirely accurate name of The Club. On a billboard I read: Live Sex-Show, Porno Movies, Bar, Night Club. "You perform live sex?" I asked, incredulously. Sam laughed. "I wish I had that kind of courage," he replied. "Unfortunately all I do is stand right here on this spot and encourage tourists to go in. The English and French comes in pretty handy. I also double as a bouncer." "Unbelievable," I muttered. "My father paid twenty thousand bucks to get you through school and I picked up the rest. You have a college degree in engineering and another one in advertisingand what do you do? You end up working as a pimp!" "It's advertising, isn't it?" he protested innocently. "It sure ain't Madison Avenue though," I replied. "Your father would have a fit if he knew about this. If I were you, I'd keep it very secret till the day you die." I was angry with him but not as angry as I would have been a few years earlier. I had lived in Holland long enough to know that such an occupation was not viewed with the same horror and disgust as in other countries. I also knew that live sex performances usually involved husband and wife or girlfriend and boyfriend and for them it was strictly a way of making money - and a very competitive way at that. I have to admit that I was fascinated by the whole business but far too embarrassed to ask questions. Sam introduced me to the owner of The Club, a Moroccan-Dutchman by the name of Hamid. Hamid had worked for eleven years at another club just across the street called the
523
PRIVATE SCREENING
Casa Rossa before purchasing his own business. He wasn't, as you might have expected, dirty, shifty or dishonest: he was a pleasant man in his mid-thirties who lived next door to his club with his Dutch wife and young daughter. "It's a business like any other," he told me. "What else could I have done in Holland? Here you need a diploma just to open a barber's shop." "I certainly agree with you there," I said. "I'm pretty well qualified as it happens but I've still had a lot of trouble finding work here." "Well," said "if you're after something part-time, I'm always hiring." "No thanks," I replied. "One member of the family in this business is enough." After that first encounter, I often went to meet Sam outside his club on the Oudezijds Achterburgwal. I could have found him in the thickest fog: all I had to do was to follow a loud voice shouting "Boobs! The biggest boobs in town! Live Sex Show!" In time, I learned a little about how he operated. The normal entrance price for The Club was seventy-five guilder but very few people had to pay that much. A good hustler or someone who appeared extremely reluctant on a slow day could knock the price down by thirds and get free drinks into the bargain. For me, it was an interesting experience. The goings-on on the Oudezijds Achterburgwal were an important feature of Dutch life and I had to admit that if Sam wanted to stay in Holland there was very little else he could have done. And, what was more, I prided myself on my open mind. My open mind received a severe knock a few weeks later when Sam was approached by what appeared to be a young couple. Sam handed the key to his apartment to the girl and she led her 'boyfriend' off in the right direction without even bothering to ask where my brother lived. "What was that all about?" I asked. "That was about twenty guilder for half an hour," he replied. "Are you telling me you're using your apartment as a whorehouse?" I yelled. "No, I'm not," said Sam. "She is." be "Well, "What's your problem. Bill?" he asked. "There are pimps round here begging for places for their girls. My apartment is a perfect location."
524
CRIMES OF PATENT
"Good grief!" I groaned. "I always wondered how you managed to make a living out of standing at a door and shouting. Now I know." come on, Bill," said Sam. "It's only a little sideline. never get rich at it. As long as I can cover my expenses, that's enough for me. be leaving in a few months' time anyway hey, maybe you can take over." Sam hadn't been entirely serious about that but he was well aware of my financial crisis. A few days later, as I was leaving him, he stuck a one hundred guilder note in my pocket and I don't think forget that simple act of kindness as long as I live. There had been a time, not so very long ago, when I would have found it humiliating and would probably have insisted he took the money back, but those days had long gone. Poverty and pride don't usually go hand in hand. But I now regarded my straitened circumstances as a temporary situation. It was an unpleasant period, all right, but I was sure it would come to an end as soon as Macsteel made their option agreement permanent. It was a month after first meeting Sam that I invited him home for dinner. Once our meal was out of the way, Fenny and I took him to her parents' place for coffee. I was surprised when Fenny dropped Sam's occupation into the middle of our conversation. By now I was used to the frankness of the Dutch but wasn't this taking it a bit too far? Fenny's parents were surprised too but not particularlyshocked. Peter, her father, was especially intrigued. A few minutes later he was asking Sam the name of the club and if there would be a tip in it for him should he bring clients there in his taxi. "Sure," said Sam. take it up with my boss. I'm sure he can use more customers." "It sounds like a pretty lucrative business to me," said Peter. "Maybe your brother here should stop ironing shirts and give massages instead." "I can't seem him being much good at that," said Sam. "But I'm sure that Bill and I could work something out." I couldn't believe I was hearing all this. In my own family, such a conversation could never have taken place. And I certainly wasn't prepared for the offer Sam made me later that evening before I drove him back to his apartment. I had been showing him round my motor home which was standing in a neighboring parking-lot. "It's a nice vehicle, Bill," he said.
525
PRIVATE SCREENING
"I thought you'd like it," I replied. "I don't have much use for it at the moment though. In fact I can't afford to run it." "Then why don't you park it around the red-light district," he said, unexpectedly. "I could rent it out by the hour. You could make a couple of hundred bucks a day out of that." "Look, Sam," I replied. "If you think that I'm going to let a vehicle registered in my name be used as a mobile whorehouse, you're very much mistaken. Suppose it gets confiscated and I land up in jail." "You won't," said Sam. "This isn't America, you know. Prostitution isn't illegal here and it's by no means as dirty as you seem to think." "Thanks but no thanks," I said. However, by the time I was driving back home after dropping Sam off, my mind had settled on one thing: two hundred dollars a day. If the Macsteel deal fell through the following month my patents would be in danger of being lost permanently. Two hundred bucks a day would be a godsend. The next day I drove my motor home into town and parked it alongside a canal a few blocks away from Sam's apartment. I found Sam at work and gave him the key. be sitting in the around the corner," I said. "Keep an eye on it for me. I don't want anyone wrecking it." "Leave it to me," said Sam. "The people I work with are dependable - I make sure of that." I sat in the for an hour and then curiosity got the better of me. I decided to go for a short walk that took me past the place where the motor home was parked. Sure enough, the curtains were closed. I walked back to where Sam was trying to pull in customers. "For services rendered," he said, handing me a one hundred guilder bill. And that's how it went from that point on. The motor home became an extension of Sam's business and, to the best of my knowledge, the first and only Pimp-mobile in Amsterdam. We took a few obvious precautions against the possibility of unwelcome interest by changing streets on a daily basis but there wasn't much risk attached to the business. I started to become familiar with the whole neighborhood and found the people who worked there unexpectedly friendly and lacking in pretension. Sometimes I even stood in for Sam if he had to meet his girlfriend and had no one else to replace him. My work then reminded me of nothing less than the first Anaheim convention when I would stand in the middle of the aisle collapsing and expand-
526
CRIMES OF PATENT
ing my bottle like an accordion and hoping that none of the boxes on my stand contained strap-on breasts. Life is full of little ironies. It wasn't entirely accurate of me to say that I had the only mobile whorehouse in Amsterdam. There was another. The basic difference between that one and my own was that it floated. Ernie was a thirty year-old Englishman from Liverpool who owned a narrow canal-boat. Inside, it was very similar to my motor home but the beds had satin sheets, there were posters on the walls and the hygienic equipment was more sophisticated. Unlike me, Ernie had no trouble in finding parking spots: he would simply steer his boat into the bank and make it fast. The girl and her customer would hop onto the deck and Ernie would make himself scarce until business had been concluded. His only problem was making sure the boat didn't float away. It was thanks to my work in the red-light district and the money I got from ironing shirts that I was able to pay my telephone and fax bills which, since the beginning of my negotiations with South Africa, had begun to creep up again. However, aside from the sparse correspondence I received from my patent attorney regarding annuity fees that were becoming due, this was the full extent of my business communications. Yet finally I received a fax from Mr Krautkramer of Bericap regarding the long-awaited confirmation of our licensing agreement. It was a bitter disappointment. I was heartbroken to read that although he claimed to be still interested in the development of my closures, he found the protection of my European patents too weak to withstand the harassment from Dennis Lawrence. The legal documents he was receiving and the newspaper articles that were continuing to appear about the criminal charges and the arrest warrant were too much for him to handle. Not many days had passed before I received a similar communication from Jacobs GmbH my European partners in the development of the award-winning jerrycan. With it was a bill for fifty thousand dollars representing half of the original investment they had made in the project. They wished me luck. From this point onwards, the European market ceased to exist. Two crucial research programs that might have earned billions of dollars one of which would also have saved lives - and had never been licensed to CBA and were not part of any dispute had been successfully torpedoed by Dennis Lawrence. I had done my best to keep the indenti-
527
PRIVATE SCREENING
ties of both companies a secret by finally Dennis had learned of them from his attorney and the American Arbitration Association. I had thought that telling the arbitrators about these two major research and development programs, as well as about the substantial investment in other containers and accessories and the eight additional inventions that I had filed, would convince them of my ability to conduct my business efficiently and profitably and would contrast strongly with CBA's inability to perform. Unfortunately their attention had been distracted towards the criminal charges and it had all gone for nothing. Now Dennis had finally succeeded in isolating me completely and destroying all that I had worked for in the past two years and with no possible advantage to himself. Although I had always had my doubts about how safe my international business actually was and had taken what I thought were reasonable precautions to keep the relevant information away from Dennis' ears, I had believed that the arbitrator's award, which specifically forbade his interference, would be the final word on the subject. I had accepted the fact that I would not benefit from my container applications in the United States but I looked forward to commercializing other products. All of this had now come to an abrupt and painful conclusion. It was towards the end of Macsteel's sixty day option period when I received a call from Dan, their in-house lawyer in New York. "I've got bad news, Bill." what's new, Dan?" "CBA's lawyers have filed a correction to their award with the arbitrators. They've asked for all international filings as they relate to hollow article technology." "They've what?" "I know," said Dan. "It's just incredible. Your licensing agreement confines CBA's activities to the United States only; your hollow article technology is filed in Europe under the Canadian patent, which is not under dispute, and that patent itself is merely an extension of the patents you filed before CBA was created. If the arbitrators agree to their request, it'll destroy your entire world-wide operation." For a moment, I was too shocked to reply. "You can say that again," I murmured at last. "They've got a lot of nerve say that for them. Not only did they make no effort to save those international filings, their lawyers pulled every trick in the book to make me lose them. The only filings I've managed to salvage are the European ones and l've been paying dearly for them, I can tell you.
528
CRIMES OF PATENT
This is just unreal! They've never tried to claim my international patents before, why start now?" "I guess they figure they're on a winning streak," said Dan. "They'll probably carry on requesting one little bit at a time so it doesn't look suspicious." "Do you call this 'one little bit at a time'?" I asked. "Can you imagine some guy being awarded a patent by a Canadian court and then going back to them later and saying 'Gee, I'm sorry you forgot to mention the United States'? They'd fall about laughing! Do you think the arbitrators are going to agree to it?" "We're going to know soon enough. In fact the decision might have been made already." Sure enough, the partners' request was approved. At that point it occurred to me that the arbitrators were exacting their revenge. I had accused them of collusion during the arbitration and later of incompetence in my letter rejecting the award. Now they were going to teach me a lesson. The only other explanation I could think of was that, in view of the mystery surrounding CBI and the possibility that Dennis might use his holding in it to the disadvantage of CBA, the arbitrators thought it best to put everything under one roof and bring the matter to an end. The next day, I got a call from my patent attorney in The Hague. A perplexed Mr Ferguson faxed me copies of correspondence he had received from patent attorneys in Marseille according to which Dennis Lawrence had granted exclusive rights to the European market to a certain Clair Costanzo in return for a derisory four percent royalty. "This man isn't licensing," said Ferguson, "he's just destroying your business. Why else would he give away a market twice as big as the U.S. to the first crook who asks for it?" Ferguson knew about Clair Costanzo. Having spent so much time dealing with him in recent months, I'd had to keep my patent attorney up to date with all developments and those developments had included my discovery that the Frenchman was slightly less than honest. A few days after this call, Jeffrey Samson was on the line. He faxed me several pages that he had received from Dennis Lawrence. The covering letter began: Gentlemen, I have information that leads me to believe that you recently entered into an agreement with Mr William N. Touzani for certain licensing rights relating to Collapsible Containers worldwide. If
529
PRIVATE SCREENING
my information is correct, it would be to your advantage to review the enclosed documents.... "Look at the bottom of the page, Bill," said Jeffrey, "It says that CBA has 'clear and definitive rights to the Collapsible technology worldwide.' This man seems to think he's God. We all know that hundreds of inventors have developed collapsible products of one sort or another some of them are so old that we don't even know who the inventor was. Does he think he owns the wheel?'' I didn't answer. The question was rhetorical anyway. "The arbitration award," he continued, "states very clearly that you are allowed to license internationally as does the original restraining order. Yet, in spite of that, he writes later 'you would be in violation of criminal statutes in the United States for doing so'." It was pointless listening to more of this. "Please don't try to make sense of it," 1 said. "Dennis Lawrence's famous for his love of using impressive phrases and exaggerated statements to try to intimidate people. You wouldn't believe how many letters of this sort he's sent to everyone connected with me. As far as I can see, he has three aims: to scare of potential licensees, to deny me any income that I might use to fight him and, generally speaking, to confuse the issues for all concerned." "I wouldn't be surprised if he's succeeded,"said Jeffrey. "This criminal arrest warrant makes you look like the scum of the earth. And that, according to my lawyers, is why CBA is successfully acquiring everything you own. He's managed to shift the attention of the arbitrators from contractual issues to the criminal charges made against you: they probably ignore the law entirely and trust to their better judgement. In that context, I'm afraid there's very little we can do at least as long as Dennis Lawrence's still on the loose." "It's all in your hands now," I said. "Your option agreement forbids me from licensing others or dealing with any other related matters. If Macsteel isn't capable of standing up to Lawrence then how am I expected to do so?" "Well I can assure you we can be just as strong-headed as he is," replied Jeffrey, "but if you look at the next page of the fax you'll have to agree with me that there isn't much we can do either." The page he was referring to consisted of a single sheet of 'Touzani Inc.' headed notepaper. It was an agreement written in French which, in translation, read as follows:
530
CRIMES OF PATENT
I, the undersigned, certify I that grant the right to exploit, in the entire world, the following patents registeredin the USA; 32379 of 24 March 1987 4773458 of 27 September 1988 4887730 of 19 December 1989 4955493 of 11 September 1990 to Mr CLAIR COSTANZO, resident at 1 Impasse les ROMARINS 13490 JOUQUES, FRANCE as repayment for debts incurredas a result of the investments made by him to help me establish myself in EUROPE. Should he manufacture and commercialize products based on my patents, he undertakes to pay me, for the duration of this exploitation, 3% COMMISSION on the turnover realized in all exploited countries and without any further demand of engagement on my part. William TOUZANI If the English is bad, the French was worse. It was difficult to read in the first place: the document appeared to have been copied several times and the typographical quality was poor. The signatureat the bottom was undoubtedly my own but 'Uithoorn', the town in which Fenny and I had lived before we moved to her apartment, had been spelled 'Vithooen' as if whoever typed the document had paid little attention to it or had been unable to decipher the name. The letter was April 1991 on the eve of my departure for South Africa. dated "It's a forgery," I said, simply. "It's something cooked up between Dennis Lawrence and Clair Costanzo to dissuade you from doing business with me, should everything else fail. I never signed this." "We know it's a forgery," said Jeffrey. "We know how you negotiate agreements. I really can't see you giving away everything you have in a couple of paragraphs written in a foreign language. Come to think of it, this must be the shortest agreement on record. What's more, apparently this was signed when we were in the middle of making your travel arrangements to come down to South Africa. I'd hate to think that you considered this man more important than Macsteel." "I'm glad you see that," I replied. "Frankly, the document makes V no sense whichever way you look at it. The letterhead - Touzani B represents a corporation which distributes houseware: it has no right to issue patents. And wouldn't you say I'd be able to spell the name of the town I live in?" "This Dennis Lawrence must certainly hate your guts," observed Jeffrey. "This sort of thing could land him in jail for a long time - and
531
PRIVATE SCREENING
that's ignoring the question of his harassing your clients. He's also risking charges of libel. But that, unfortunately, doesn't alter our point of view. As you know, in recent months we've been very busy talking terms with several major corporations around the world Gerber being but one of them but none of these potential customers will want anything to do with us if Dennis sends this sort of material to them. That would be asking too much. It's quite obvious that neither Dennis nor CBA have any real interest in taking over your international patents they simply want to destroy the market for you. And in that respect, it's quite clear that Lawrence, in particular, will go to any lengths." So there was the bottom line. Already, I could feel the tears starting in my eyes. Jeffrey asked me for another sixty day extension to his option agreement in the hope that they might be able to reason with Dennis and point out that he stood to lose if he continued to pursue his policy of destruction. I knew this was a forlorn hope. This conversation between Jeffrey Samson and myself would be the final discussion regarding my inventions. More than that, I was going to make damned sure it was the final discussion. I asked Jeffrey to let me know if anything positive resulted from his efforts but there was never to be a response. The final collapse happened swiftly. A few days after my call from South Africa, my first European patent entitled Process of Manufacturing a Collapsible Bottle, was permanently lost. It had taken five years' work to get it issued and all it now needed was to be translated from English to the other European languages and registered in each country before 29th August 1991. The expenses involved twenty cents a word for translation and a one hundred dollar filing fee - were now beyond my means. The following days saw the permanent loss of the patents pending in the U.S., the Hollow Articles patent for Europe and the tamperproof closure patent. As each final notification came through, a part of me died. A letters from Mr Ferguson continued to drop into my mail-box s on a weekly basis, I sank into a sort of lethargy. I spent my days sprawling on the couch watching CNN and Filmnet on TV. The only departure from this routine came in the form of my visits to David's apartment in Alphen. There we were both gripped by a feverish mania to bring the book to a conclusion. We would set to work within five minutes of my stepping across the threshold, take a hurried sandwich on the run and work solidly for three, four, five hours at a time until either David caved in with exhaustion or I could
532
CRIMES OF PATENT
no longer bear to relive the events I was describing to him. Our work together had begun with my giving David written information which was logically and selectively classified. By now it had turned into a spontaneous relating of events that left me drained of all emotion. Our progress was painfully slow: for every ten minutes of monologue on my part, David would have to spend an hour or more making sense of it and turning it into something which was not only logical but readable. At the end of every session, we would exchange a few words more and then I would leave. Back home, there would often be another letter from Ferguson telling me of yet another patent that had gone the way of all flesh. All my ambitions, all my dreams had faded into nothingness. Writing the book had become the only thing of any meaning in my life. The sense of urgency to finish it had less to do with the possibility of getting it published and making some money than it had with the fear that I might allow my memory to deteriorate to the point where I began believing Dennis' side of the story. As the book progressed, however, the pattern of events became clearer and the more determined I became that the public should be told of the incredible experiences that I had lived through. What happened to me will happen again. It can happen to anyone. Unless the U.S. government takes its patenting system seriously, unless it finds a way to review its licenses and determine what qualifications and competence are needed to exploit them, unless patent agencies require licenses to be written by patent attorneys, the disastrous events that I have retold in this book will repeat themselves. The government must insist that disputes involving intellectual property be settled by judges and arbitrators who are fully versed in patent law. They must prevent restraining orders being taken out against inventors, particularly for the purpose of stopping them from communicating with their own patent attorneys. Unless such conditions are met and I am talking from bitter experience - the patent system will remain an expensive plaything for the corporate world and a source of heartbreak for the small, independent inventor. The only winner will continue to be the justice system. The sacrifices I have made and the achievements to my credit are a matter of public record but finally they have, in themselves, little importance. The only satisfaction that I can now draw from the events of the last few years is that they may, in some way, provide a salutary example for the public at large. No one is immune to what I have been
533
PRIVATE SCREENING
through. I hope that the pain that I have relived in committing these experiences to paper shall not have been in vain.
***
In 2002, William Touzani joined the Department of Homeland Security and the war on terror. Because of security concerns, only a gallery of pictures has been allowed to show his experiences. www.ThanksTSA.com
534

PRIVATE SCREENING. The Making and Unmaking of An American Dream

Uploaded by

Document Information

Original Title

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

PRIVATE SCREENING. The Making and Unmaking of An American Dream

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

PRIVATE SCREENING

the making and unmaking of an american dream

Copyright 2000 c 2011 by William Touzani

Beverage Industry (january 1986)

Packaging (May 1988)

Business Week (June27, 1988)

I have spent over one hundred thousand dollars in

You might also like