“And Shechem, prince of the land, saw her and took her and lay with her and abused her.”

Vayishlach Genesis 32:4

The middle-aged actresses were lining up for the press every day to tell their stories of sexual abuse by that scumbag Herman Schneer.  To Diane Goodwell, herself a middle-aged actress, the continual reports gave her an image of the froth pouring out of a bottle of champagne that had been shaken.  The pressure was there, building for decades, and it just took that last quarter inch for the cork to pop.  At first it felt good, as though these women had released what that Diane had carried around in her own body these past twenty years. 

That liberating feeling changed when on Friday, as the announcements had been dying down, another woman surged to the front of the line to tell her own tale of abuse.  Catlin Morris began her tour of shame on all the major networks.  She was by far the most successful actress to level accusations against Schneer, and she was the boldest.  The daytime news shows loved it.

“Schneer raped me.  Not in the literal sense of drugging me or holding me down physically.  He held my career down.  He held it hostage and made it very clear that being cast in ‘A Woman On The Edge’ depended on my willingness to engage in an afternoon of sexual acts… of all forms… with him.  I said yes.  I admit that now.  For a man like that, power is like a blade held to your throat.”

“Oh my God you whiney bitch,” Diane cursed at her TV screen.  “It was ME who was raped!  You in your fucking Ralph Lauren!”  She looked around at her Fairfax District studio apartment and became lost in a meditation on her stove top.  It was a cheap ceramic covered appliance, chipped in the corners, the burner covers slightly bent, and it seemed to symbolize her entire life, her struggle, over the past twenty years as an actress.

To Hollywood, Catlin Morris was a hot property.  Diane Goodwell described her to friends as “an enlarged pussy stretched uncomfortably on a pile of bones.” 

Diane believed she shared a bond with Catlin Morris which would never die.  She shared an almost identical experience with the successful actress.  She had revisited the scene hundreds of times, half the times through her own eyes, and half the time picturing Catlin going through an identical sequence.

In the winter of 1999, when Diane was twenty-five years old, she had been doing pretty much the same thing then as what she was doing currently – looking through the pages of “Backstage” for roles in the Los Angeles theaters.  Most of these were showcases – acting jobs that paid nothing, set in 99 seat theaters.  Actors like Diane appeared in these as a way to get in front of possible agents, or just to keep their talents alive.  She had exhausted this week’s issue when the phone rang.  It was her agent, who seemed to hardly ever call.  She had been submitted for the leading role in an art film.  It was to be the second feature film by Sam Edgervil, whose first film took several awards at the previous year’s Sundance festival.  Both the director and his casting director wanted to meet with her.  “It’s called ‘A Woman On The Edge”, her agent told her, “and they think you’ve got an edgy look, and have done some really tough, self-effacing roles.” The reading itself was just a blur of nervous energy and all that Diane remembered was the feeling of exhilaration in the room. The director seemed sincerely excited to be in the room with her.  He gave her some guidance on a few lines, and on each second reading his eyes would widen, and he’d ruffle through the script to find more material for her to read.

The next day her agent called to arrange a meeting between Diane and the film’s producer, Herman Schneer.  Schneer was visiting from New York, and staying in the Buona Vita Hotel in Beverly Hills.  Would she meet him for lunch today?  It seemed to Diane that the deal was probably sealed, and boy, she wouldn’t mind a free lunch.  When she arrived and the valet took her keys, she wondered whether she’d be expected to pay for her own parking, and how much to tip the valet.  He was probably better paid than she was.  After getting lost down a few corridors she finally arrived at the restaurant – still a few minutes early – and, oh God, the host didn’t see either her name or Schneer’s on the reservation list.  But then a young man came up to her and explained that lunch would be held on the patio in Schneer’s private suite. 

When Schneer came to the door, Diane recalled feeling amazed at how happy he seemed to be to see her.  People were almost never happy to see her.  She knew she was so needy, and she knew it showed.  Yet here was a major film producer, who immediately made her feel as though she was a Hollywood insider.  She could be made to feel like she belonged here; she was now one of the important people.  Even in his hotel robe, Schneer immediately appeared to Diane as a man who took care of himself, ate well, and worked out frequently, for all of his forty-plus years.   When the young assistant excused himself, and the door closed, and Schneer came to give her a big warm Hollywood hug, Diane realized immediately that the producer was not wearing anything at all under his robe.  A cold injection of adrenaline rushed through her body, and Diane no longer felt like an insider.  She felt alone, an intruder in some stranger’s world.

“Sam and Jane had such great things to say about you, and I can see why,” the man in the robe had told her.  “You’re exquisitely beautiful.”

Diane recalled how her agent had told her she was first chosen for her “edgy” looks.  She didn’t feel beautiful, ever.  Her chin came to a sharp point and her eyes were thin and fierce.  The situation in the room seemed to be bad and it was getting worse.

Schneer draped down the shoulder of his robe.  “I’m not bad myself.  Feel that.  Solid muscle.  Working out comes with a cost, you know.  Such stiffness.  You and me, I hope we’ll be working together a lot, and we should be like close friends.  Could you be a real friend and give those shoulders your best massage?  It could mean a lot to both of us.  I reward my friends very well.”

Diane knew she was trying to control a very small boat on a very stormy sea.  To turn around would flip the boat over.  To go forward would let her be swallowed by the next wave.

“You know I was really looking forward to just sharing some lunch and discussing the part.  Why don’t we go out on the patio and talk before the food gets cold?  I’d love to tell you how I’d approach the role of Emily.”

“I’ll leave that to Sam, what I really need is a friend,” and he dropped his robe entirely.  Diane recalled that seeing him openly erect, while slightly disgusting and shocking, was almost a relief – like the big reveal of a horror movie whose ending you could see coming for the past thirty minutes.  “…and my friend has such beautiful lips,” he said.  “Would you please be my friend?”

And it is at this point where Diane’s memory of the scene and the image of how this scene must have played out for Catlin Morris a week later take two different paths, each going off the edge of the world in their respective directions.

Diane said “No.”  Catlin said “Yes.”

A week later, Diane read in Variety that emerging actress Catlin Morris had been cast in the title role of of “A Woman On The Edge,” with Sundance winner Sam Edgervil attached as director, and produced by Herman Schneer. Diane’s agent had already called her with the news that the director liked her reading but decided he was looking for someone..  “edgy, but in a softer way.”

Diane had been able to contain her revulsion for Catlin Morris until that Oscar night, when Morris won the Academy Award for her performance.  It turned Morris’s career around.  The best agents wanted her; the best directors wanted her; she had her choice of projects, and her momentum was strong enough to carry her through even some disappointing “prestige projects” into her role as “Boomslang”, a female action hero who can turn into a venomous snake at will.  Diane had seen every one of her movies, including the most recent one where her character flings a poisoned dagger into the crotch of a villainous serial rapist.  “Gimme a break,” she thought.

But today it was all in the open, and today Catlin Morris had again achieved celebrity status by being Schneer’s most prominent victim.  Diane had not been cast in that role, and no one had invited her to read for it.  Her own agent had cut her off a year after the incident with Schneer when not a single producer or casting agent expressed interest in her.

Diane had come to the realization that she could not rely on the publicity machine to right the wrong that Schneer had imposed on her for the past twenty years.  She was nothing.  Another struggling actress, working odd jobs, appearing in 99 seat theaters, and one who had never been physically violated by the producer.  She would need to confront the man personally.  She would need to acquire a weapon she could conceal – perhaps a switchblade, or a knife she could carry in a sheath in her purse.  She would need to prepare, as she did for a role, in “creative visualization”.  In this case, she would need to practice over and over again, summoning up the image of Herman Scheer as his robe hit the ground, and the swift unflinching response that was required of her.

Herman Schneer’s production company had moved its offices from New York City to Burbank, where it could be closer to the studios.  Diane bought food from the best nearby restaurant and tucked it into a picnic basket, along with her blade, nestled comfortably near the duck breast, easy to reach.  She ascended the elevator to the eighth floor, alone, thank goodness!  Breathing exercises.  Creative visualization.  There is the salad; there is the butternut squash; there is the duck breast; there is the knife.  She had spent more on this lunch for Schneer than she had spent on her own food for a week.  The doors open and she is face to face with the receptionist.

“Hello, I have lunch for Mr. Schneer from Racine’s restaurant.”

“I don’t believe that Mr. Schneer had ordered lunch.  He would usually have me or his assistant order for him.”

“This was intended to be a surprise from his sister.  The message is that this is to help take his mind off of the troubling people in his life.”

The receptionist gave a chuckle.  “Why don’t you leave it with me.”

“I’m sorry but this is a complete meal which is intended to be set up in his office.  These are my instructions and I was told that this shouldn’t be a problem.”

The receptionist had pretty much seen it all.  She picked up the phone.  “Ginny, is Herman in a meeting?  He has a surprise lunch from his sister.  Racine’s.  She needs to set it up there.  Just buzz her in please.”

Diane is directed down an endless corridor to the back.  “Oh my God, the wall to the office appears to be glass,” she sees.  But finally at the end, a young woman catches her eye and waves her in – over to the left, in an office which neither she nor anyone can see into.  “Herman, you have lunch,” woman says on the phone.

The door opens and Diane sees him immediately.  His hair is now grey and shorter, and he has a perfectly trimmed beard, but he isn’t balding at all.  He must now be in his mid-sixties, but he’s immediately recognizable and he looks almost as fit as he did in his forties.  When was the last time he asked a woman to feel his muscles?  Would he recognize her too?  Or was she nothing to Schneer, despite the fact that he had been everything to Diane for twenty years.

He was as ingratiating as ever.  “Come in!  Come in!  Doris sent you?  I haven’t eaten at Racine’s in probably three years.  You can use that table.  Oh my God, look at all that food!  She’s trying to make me fat and ugly so I can’t get into trouble.  Do you have to get back?  Have something!”

After twenty years, Schneer finally wanted to have lunch with Diane.  After twenty years, Diane finally wanted to give him a massage.

“May I close the door?” she asked.  And then “I was told that you needed to relax more.”  Diane stepped behind his chair and began massaging his shoulders over his shirt.  He didn’t wince or resist.  She worked open the front buttons of his shirt and found her way to his bare shoulders and back.  Diane’s gambit was that Schneer the sort of man who became sufficiently unhinged by his own arousal, that his physical drive would overtake his common sense.  It seemed as though she was correct.

Diane went on in a sex kitten voice. “I was told that you are very, very misunderstood, and you should know that this is one hundred and one percent consensual.” She stepped in front of his chair, lowered herself to her knees, and began unfastening his belt and pants. With one hand she reached to feel the basket.  She caressed its rim to help her visualize exactly where it was.  Creative visualization.  The knife would be just a foot down in the left rear corner.  The trigger on it was easy to maneuver and it was swift.  And finally, with his body exposed, she parted her lips, lowered her head, and reached into the basket.  She pulled her arm up violently, switched open the blade, and brought it up.

And suddenly she felt his powerful elbow ram into her jaw, his other hand flew at her wrist.  The edge of the blade just barely caught behind the tip of his penis, as the knife went flying across the room.  Blood spattered Diane’s face and smeared across the duck breast.  Schneer grabbed at his crotch and then reached for a button on his desk.  He buttoned up his pants, looking down to see if any of his blood could be noticed from the outside of his pants.  He swiveled his chair back under the desk, concealing anything below his waist.  Diane was knocked on her side on the floor, still dazed at being bested and overtaken in her performance.  Two security guards abruptly came in.

“She has a knife!” Schneer shouted.  “There!  In the corner!  Don’t touch it!  It should have her finger prints on it!”

Diane felt herself yanked off the floor, grabbed under each armpit, and dragged backwards through the corridor.  The last thing she heard was Schneer’s assistant run into the office.  “Are you alright?  What happened?”

“She tried to attack me with a knife, but I’m okay.”

As Diane was dragged into the elevator, the one word that stabbed itself into her skull in rhythm with her pounding heart was “failure, failure, failure, failure…”

She was jailed in a basement holding room for unknown hours, where a television was playing for the amusement of the security officers.  And now, her own story was playing…

“Beware of actresses bearing gifts!  Hollywood film producer and accused sexual abuser Herman Schneer was attacked in his office today by a woman pretending to deliver… lunch!  The alleged assailant, Diane Goodwell, is a struggling actress in her mid-forties, and her relation, if any, to the notorious film mogul is not known, nor is it known if the alleged attack was in any way related to the accusations of sexual abuse made against the mogul.  Schneer has told the police he was very frightened but not in any way physically harmed.”

“Well,” said the security guard, “if you wanted your fifteen minutes of fame, it looks like you got it.”

In time, the guards handed her over to the police, who drove her to the station. Diane was led to a bench where her handcuffs were attached to a rod running across its length.  She could see that she arrived with a certain amount of advance notoriety.  The cops there, both the men and the women, gave a little smile of amusement when they looked at her, and Diane could swear that the smiles from the pair of female cops were just a little bit different than the smiles coming from the men.  

At last, still handcuffed behind her back, she was brought to an interview room.  An unrecognized male cop and one of the females she’d seen out front were waiting for her.

The female began.  “I can’t blame you for wanting to kill that son of a bitch serial rapist.  Was that your plan?  Why’d you hate him so much?”

And Diane looked around – at the two police testing her – at maybe more police behind the one-way mirror – and realized that she was again helplessly alone.

“I’d like to speak to a lawyer.”

The female cop laughed.  “You can do that, but then your story may never see the light of day.  I think it’s an important story.  You got a lawyer?”

“I don’t even have lunch,” Diane thought to herself.  She told them, “I’d like a public defender.”

“A public defender?  Well,” said the male cop.  Your timing ain’t great.  It’s five-thirty on a Friday, so you’ll be making yourself comfortable in a cell until sometime next Monday afternoon.  Sure you don’t want to talk?

The door to the interview room went flying open and a very serious woman in her late thirties, short cropped hair, in a striped tailored suit entered.

“Are you Diane Goodwell?”

“Yes.”

“Do not say another word to anyone other than me.  I am here to represent you as your criminal attorney.  I will be working for you at no cost to yourself if you will allow me to.  Do you authorize me to represent you in any criminal matters you are currently facing?  I need a yes or a no.”

Diane tried to hold back her tears.  She tried to hold back her screams. 

“Yes.  Yes. But why are you here?  Who is paying you?”

“Are you familiar with the actress Catlin Morris?”

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