—Why would I worry about my privacy?
He shows me an email on his phone. “From the personal office of Donald Wallace III.” Rich people grow organizations around themselves like hair or fingernails. This personal office, this tentacle of Carter’s father, has authorized a monthly transfer into my account. Enough money, I quickly calculate, to cover rent and living expenses.
—Forget about him, the killer. Go away and rebuild your life. Don’t get involved in any of this. In return you can look forward to a little stability. You’re freelance, right?
I nod. I feel very tired.
—So you’ll appreciate some regular income. I mean, I know how it is.
—Oh yeah?
—Well, not personally. I have a couple friends, entrepreneurs, you know.
I am not sure what relevance his friends have to me. I nod again.
—Great. The conditions are straightforward. When I say forget about this, that’s exactly what you do. No matter what you see or hear or read in the paper, you keep quiet. You don’t speak to the media. If anyone from the media tries to contact you, you do not engage in conversation. You put the phone down and call me straightaway. You don’t attend the funeral. You don’t try to contact any member of the family, except through me. If you have any business to transact with the family, you can do so through me. It is strongly suggested that you do not base yourself anywhere in New York State or the State of Mississippi, but I will need to have your location, phone and mailing address and so forth so I can get in touch. We just want to help you to put this behind you, which I’m sure is what you want to do anyway. Start afresh.
—Did you say don’t attend Leonie’s funeral?
—That’s right.
—So Leonie’s dead.
—Yes. Are you feeling OK?
—And they don’t want me at her funeral?
—It’s going to be private. Immediate family only, is what I understand.
—Tell me what happened to her.
—I’m sorry, but I don’t know all the details.
—They don’t want to talk to me? Who is they? Cornelius or the parents? I was with her, you know? They need to understand that. We were together.
—I’m sure I didn’t mean to imply anything.
—But that’s what I’m saying.
—The family takes the view that, although they bear you no ill will, it is best to maintain some distance from you at this time.
—This is all Cornelius. That motherfucker. And not contacting any member of the family would include Carter?
—From what I am given to understand, Carter is no longer capable of making decisions for himself. His father holds power of attorney. He is authorized to act on Carter’s behalf. The Wallace Family wish you to respect their privacy in their time of grief, just as they are respecting yours.
—Fucking Cornelius.
—Sure, man. I hear you. But this is coming from Mr. Wallace senior. I have some documents for you to sign. Basically what I just told you, plus language that confirms that the payments are in no way an admission of fault or liability for anything that may have happened to you.
—For how long would I get these payments?
—Indefinitely, as long as you comply with the terms of the agreement.
He unzips an expensive-looking leather portfolio, and takes out some papers.
—Also, with the understanding that this invalidates any existing contract between you and Carter Wallace.
—What existing contract? You mean our music? There wasn’t any contract as such.
—I see.
—That’s my—that’s our music. I own half. That’s how we do. Fifty-fifty. Straight down the middle.
—But you have no written contract specifying those terms?
—No. We never needed a contract. He was my friend.
I begin to hear myself, like every rube in every movie. I hear myself becoming a cautionary tale.
—Carter’s lawyers handled everything with the labels.
He nods.
—That would be our firm.
I realize I am being fucked. The Wallaces are fucking me. It has, says the lawyer, been interesting to hear me clarify. I have confirmed his understanding of the situation. He talks about subsequent to this and further to that, and then into my lap he drops “the younger Mister Wallace’s incapacity” and the news that “his copyrights” have “been assigned to a 501c3.”
—Since it looks, sadly, as if Mr. Wallace has entered a persistent vegetative state, the family has decided to create the Carter Wallace Foundation, to work on releasing his music and honoring his creative legacy by providing scholarships to deserving young student musicians from a minority background. By accepting this payment, you assign to the foundation whatever rights you hold in your joint endeavors.
—Carter’s dead.
—Technically, no.
—But this foundation would own the music we made together.
—Correct.
—As a sort of monument to Carter.
—Yes.
—All rights.
—In perpetuity. I understand that Carter Wallace was primarily responsible for the creative content of your musical productions, and you acted in a technical capacity.
—You piece of shit.
—I beg your pardon?
—I made that music. I made the sounds that made that music. I made the machines that made the fucking sounds. That is my fucking music.
He is not fazed. He does not flinch or even alter his expression.
—The Foundation’s mission is to ensure that Carter Wallace’s unique creativity is recognized and honored. However, we foresaw that you might view yourself as a collaborator, and so I’ve been authorized to offer you a one-time payment of seventy-five thousand dollars, nonnegotiable, on condition that you sign today.
My ear hurts. I tilt my head to see if it feels any better.
—I’m not signing.
—It really is nonnegotiable. And the offer won’t be repeated if you do not sign today.