by Jon Haller
Stageplay
Cast:
ZADIE: Female, 30s-40s, Black.
EVAN: Male, 40s-60s, any race.
* * *
A rehearsal studio in the not-too-distant future.
A table, a glass pitcher full of water, two glasses.
ZADIE walks around the room making a rhythmic clicking sound with her tongue.
EVAN enters in a slick, bespoke suit.
EVAN: Miss Freeman? Evan Sharv. Pleasure to meet you.
ZADIE: Hello. Did you find the place alright?
EVAN: I haven’t been to this part of town in a while. It’s really, uh …
ZADIE: Changed?
EVAN: Third fucking world. Outside I saw a woman shitting in the street. I’ve seen men do that in the street. Dogs, of course. The occasional horse. But a grown woman?!
ZADIE: Would you like a glass of water?
EVAN: (A beat. He looks at her.) Have we met before?
ZADIE: No.
EVAN: You sure? You seem …
ZADIE: I’m told I have one of those faces. Shall we get started?
EVAN: Terry says you’re top-notch. And if Terry says that, it means you’re good. And expensive.
ZADIE: He’s right on both counts.
EVAN: I wasn’t sure what to wear. The email said comfortable clothing.
ZADIE: A suit is a little unorthodox.
EVAN: If people see me in sweatpants they’ll think I’ve given up.
ZADIE: It’ll work for today. Do you have any questions before—
EVAN: How exactly does someone like you get into this line of work?
ZADIE: Someone like me?
EVAN: Beautiful young woman. How did you become a, uh … I don’t know what to call you.
ZADIE: Witness preparation coach. I used to be an actress.
EVAN: Ah. That’s it. I must’ve seen you in something. Something my company maybe—
ZADIE: Nothing lately.
EVAN: This is a tough town. (Looking around) Is this your whole setup? I was expecting cameras, computers, facial analysis software.
ZADIE: There are other witness coaches who use those, but I prefer a more internal approach.
EVAN: Old school.
ZADIE: Something like that.
EVAN: You’re not going to ask me about my childhood, are you? Peek into the cupboards?
ZADIE: I’m not a psychologist, Mr. Sharv.
EVAN: Evan. I’ll call you Zadie.
ZADIE: Sure. Now if you don’t mind taking a seat, I’d like to start with a breathing exercise.
EVAN: I need to pace. Stimulates the mind. You exercise?
ZADIE: I run.
EVAN: If I lived in this neighborhood, I’d run, too.
ZADIE: I don’t live here. Terry suggested we work somewhere … discreet.
EVAN: How’d you go from actress to witness coach?
ZADIE: Mr. Sharv, we don’t have much time together. I’d prefer to focus on you.
EVAN: I’m paying you. (He smiles.) Indulge me.
ZADIE: (A beat) A few years ago my brother got arrested for robbery. He was innocent. Wrong place, wrong time. A White woman picked him out of a lineup. Probably because of his face. He has an angry face. His shitty lawyer couldn’t convince him to cop a plea, the case went to trial, and I knew no jury was going to look at Stephen and believe he was innocent. So I used the only weapon we had. My training.
EVAN: You got him to act innocent?
ZADIE: Hung the jury. His lawyer was so impressed he asked me to coach another client. And another. I never saw it as a career, but by then, a lot of acting jobs had been … replaced.
EVAN: (A beat) Do I have an angry face?
ZADIE: It’s not an innocent one, Mr. Sharv.
EVAN: I told you to call me Evan.
ZADIE: I’d like you to take a seat now. Terry sent over some questions for us, questions the jury will most likely hear in cross—
EVAN: How did you get him to act innocent? Your brother.
ZADIE: You ever take a theater class in school?
EVAN: They frowned upon that at Harvard.
ZADIE: If you’re going to talk to the jury, maybe don’t mention Harvard.
EVAN: Terry said I shouldn’t mention my yacht either.
ZADIE: It’s good advice.
EVAN: Don’t you think some jurors might look up to me?
ZADIE: You don’t need them to look up to you. You need them to believe you.
EVAN: How did you get Stephen to look innocent?
ZADIE: We’re skipping ahead.
EVAN: You’re a runner. Catch up.
ZADIE: (A beat) Animal work. It’s a theater game.
EVAN: Oh god.
ZADIE: You pick an animal—monkey, cow, leopard—and walk around the room as that animal.
EVAN: If you think I’m paying you a small fortune to have me mewl like a kitten—
ZADIE: Animal work is good to loosen your body, but what it actually reveals is the animal you already are. Every person—if you look close, their mannerisms, how they move their eyes, how they walk—already has an inner animal. Stevie was a chicken. Skinny, shifty, darty movements. Avoided eye contact. He looked untrustworthy. So I worked with him. Every day. And got him to become—
EVAN: A different animal. Clever. Which one?
ZADIE: We’re here to work on you.
EVAN: Owl? Kangaroo? Komodo fucking dragon?
ZADIE: A sloth.
EVAN: Why? Slow and inept?
ZADIE: Harmless and innocent.
EVAN sits, scratches at his arm.
EVAN: So, Zadie, what’s my inner animal?
ZADIE: We’re kind of speeding through my process here. I’d like to start—
EVAN: —with a breathing exercise, I know. But my trial is in a month. So let’s skip past the yoga bullshit and get to the part where you tell me a courtroom is like a zoo and I’m the animal in the cage everyone is there to watch.
ZADIE: You’re right. They will be examining you. How you blink, how you yawn …
Evan checks his watch.
ZADIE (Cont’d): How you check your watch.
EVAN: You think I’m guilty. (A beat) Why would Terry hire someone who already thinks I’m guilty?
ZADIE: Maybe he knows what I know—if you can get me to believe you, maybe you can get the jury, too.
EVAN: I swear I recognize you.
ZADIE: Can we start with a breathing exercise?
EVAN: I know we didn’t fuck. I would’ve remembered that.
ZADIE: (A beat) I was in Super Bugs. I was Scorpion Girl.
EVAN: No! What? Wait, that show was entirely AI. There were no actors. In fact, that was the first slate of our shows to … Oh. You were in the live-action one.
ZADIE: The first one. The one you shelved.
EVAN: I didn’t shelve it. I was running the company. Someone ten steps below me shelved it.
ZADIE: Well, someone at your company kept it from airing to save money on taxes. Then used our faces for the CGI show.
EVAN: I hate to break it to you, but—
ZADIE: Our bodies, too.
EVAN: Show business. People always forget about the “business” part.
ZADIE: I didn’t forget. (A beat) After the strike, after your company’s legal … maneuvering, I was tending bar and the show was on in the background. My friends who were on it had agreed we’d never watch the sim version, but I couldn’t look away. It was the love scene with Scorpion Girl and Cicada Man. And just before they kiss, Scorpion Girl does this little dance. This … (She demonstrates.) I know that move because I created it. When I was researching the role, I read that scorpions dance before mating, so I added that little move when we filmed our version. A couple years later it’s an algorithm of pixels on a TV in a bar in a bad part of town. You know what it’s like trying to make rent and see an avatar steal your move? Whoever made that show, whatever made that show, took it from me. That’s not show business, Evan. It’s piracy.
EVAN pours himself a glass of water.
EVAN: You should have some water. You must be exhausted from grinding that axe.
ZADIE: Snake.
EVAN: Excuse me?
ZADIE: You asked what your inner animal is. It’s a snake. A boa constrictor.
EVAN: Hm. I figured a shark. Maybe a lion. Something with teeth.
ZADIE: You appear large and threatening, but you’re a simple predator. You have only one weapon. Slowly suffocate something that’s already there.
EVAN: Oh, is the money I’m paying you right now suffocating?
ZADIE: You need to know what you are before I can turn you into something else.
EVAN: And what do you want to turn me into?
ZADIE: I need to ask you a question the jury will want to hear.
EVAN: Then get to it.
ZADIE: It’s a little delicate. Something I’d planned for a later session—
EVAN: Ask the fucking question, Scorpion Girl.
ZADIE: (A beat, then calmly) Did you murder your wife?
EVAN: (A beat) Now who’s skipping ahead?
ZADIE: Did you murder—
EVAN: No. Next question.
ZADIE: (A beat) That is how a snake answers. Try saying it aloud.
EVAN: Is this how you coach people?
ZADIE: Can you even say it?
EVAN: I didn’t murder my wife.
ZADIE: Again.
EVAN: How many times do you want me to—
ZADIE: Close your eyes. Trust me. Say it again.
EVAN: (A beat. He closes his eyes.) I did not—
ZADIE: Quietly. You’re not a snake anymore. You’re something else. Your body is shifting.
EVAN: Okay, sure, my body is shifting.
ZADIE: You’re a dog.
EVAN: I’m a … dog?
ZADIE: A golden retriever.
EVAN: Fucking Lassie?
ZADIE: Evan, if we’re doing this, if we’re really doing this, you can’t be a snake with me. When your driver brings you over the hill, when you cross into the third world, past women shitting in the street, and walk into this room, you have to shed that skin and become an attentive, loyal, loving dog. You don’t bark, you don’t bare your teeth. You wait for my command.
EVAN: (A beat. Then, in a cartoonish dog voice) “I didn’t murder my wife.”
ZADIE: Funny. And Lassie was a border collie.
EVAN: What a spectacular waste of my time. Terry can pay you for the rest of the week.
As EVAN heads to the door, ZADIE picks up his chair and positions it in the center of the room.
ZADIE: A courtroom isn’t like a zoo. It’s more like a stage. The walk to the witness stand is your grand entrance. It should be smooth, direct, purposeful. (She demonstrates.) As you sit, gently smooth your tie. (She demonstrates.) You want to look professional, but not vain. Slowly look at the jury first, then the prosecutor, then Terry. Do not smile. Keep your chin up. This isn’t an interrogation, it’s an aria. When the questions come, you soften your eyes. (She demonstrates.) You slow your breath. (She demonstrates.) Make one small movement with your hand. (She demonstrates.) And embellish. “I did not murder my wife. I love my wife. I’d never hurt her. She was the world to me. I need you all to know this. She was the world to me. The world.”
A beat. EVAN is impressed.
ZADIE stands and pours herself a glass of water.
EVAN: Where did you learn to do that?
ZADIE: Show business. You forgot about the “show.”
EVAN: Shall we start again?
EVAN holds his hand out to shake.
ZADIE looks at it.
BLACKOUT.
Jon Haller is a writer from Carbondale, Illinois. While working on 30 Rock, he won the Writers Guild Award for Outstanding Writing in New Media. He was a writer/producer for all nine seasons of Fox/ABC’s Last Man Standing and was the head writer/lyricist for Kobe Bryant’s narrative kids podcast series The Punies. He is currently developing an autobiographical comedy for CBS Studios called Token White Friends. He lives in Los Angeles with his much more successful wife and his three ridiculous children.