“She must have been devastated when she found out.”
“I don’t know what to do. I urged her to come back home, but she refused. She says she has another meeting set up with Mr. Marker.”
“She needs a good lawyer,” I said.
“There’s no way we can afford a lawyer, Jessica. But maybe there’s somewhere I can report this man for what he did. I suggested that to Cindy, but she begged me to not do anything until she’s had a chance to talk with him again. There must be some kind of mistake, Jessica. He’s been in business for a long time. You read some of his letters and e-mails to Cindy, so warm and encouraging. I can’t believe he would do something so mean to a young girl.”
I didn’t debate it with her, although I knew from having been around the entertainment business that there are some people, who despite having impressive credentials and a pleasing manner, are sharks, out solely for themselves and without conscience no matter who they hurt. But I wasn’t about to lump this Roderick Marker into that unsavory group. Maybe Janet was right, that a mistake had been made. It was best to allow Cindy to try and work it out on her own. If she failed, then it might be time for some sort of intervention by others.
“Let’s see what comes from Cindy’s meeting with him,” I counseled. “She has a good head on her shoulders. Perhaps there was a misunderstanding between them of what he would do for her. She will be getting paid for the song—won’t she?”
“Cindy said she thinks she’ll get something for the song, but Mr. Marker won’t be specific.”
“Well,” I said, “let him make his case. Then, if she’s not satisfied with his explanation or with what he’s offering, there’s time to take other action.”
Janet stood and placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure you’re right, Jessica. I really appreciate being able to speak with you about this.”
“I’m glad you came,” I said, walking her to the front door. “Call me as soon as you hear from her again.”
“It’s not as unusual as you might think, Jessica. There have been a lot of composers whose songs were published under another name. It’s musical ghostwriting.”
I was having tea at Mara’s Luncheonette with Peter Eder, the conductor of our local orchestra and another member of the CCC committee. I had called him after Janet’s visit. If there was anyone in town who could give me some perspective on Cindy’s situation, it was Peter.
“Of course, it’s happened many times in classical music,” he said, warming to the topic. “Mozart used to write pieces that his wealthy patrons would pass off as their own. It wasn’t enough to be rich. They also wanted to be admired for their culture and talent.”
“Did they pay him?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, if they wanted him to continue to provide works for their masquerade.”
“Well, I don’t think Cindy has been offered any money yet.”
“In years past, putting another name on a song was the only way some black composers could get their works out to the public,” Peter continued. “The early output of jazz great Duke Ellington was published by Irving Mills, who put his name as cowriter on a lot of Ellington’s famous songs—‘Sophisticated Lady’ for example.”
“I didn’t know that. Did Mills really write the songs with Ellington?”
“No, but he shared the proceeds fifty-fifty with the Duke. At the time, the word was put out that he contributed to the lyrics, but a lot of people have disputed that.”
“Did Ellington?”
“Dispute it? I don’t think so. It was to his advantage to have Mills promote his career, which indeed he did. Later, ironically, Ellington put his own name on some Billy Stray-horn songs. The practice was fairly common.”
“Is it acceptable in country music?” I asked, trying to get the subject back to Cindy’s predicament.
Peter shrugged. “There are an awful lot of songwriters working in Nashville trying to sell their work to country artists,” he said. “In country, it has more to do with how the performers present themselves. If a publisher wants his artist to appear to be the complete package—singer, songwriter, guitar player—then yes, I suppose they do put their names on songs that they didn’t really write. There’s a lot of collaboration involved in writing country-and-western songs, at least as I understand it, lyricists teaming up with musicians. But in Cindy’s case, she’s the only writer. I would certainly expect her to get something out of it, credit at least.”
“According to her mother, Cindy is receiving a cowriting credit, but she wasn’t even consulted about it.”
“That’s pretty shoddy,” he said. “But maybe it’s a harsh lesson. Cindy has to learn who she can trust and who she can’t, and how to protect herself and her songs.”
“I’m not ready to throw in the towel so easily. Isn’t there some way we can help, short of getting the law after him?”
“The CCC doesn’t have funds for anything like that, Jessica. Frankly, I’d vote against giving Cindy any more money. It would be taking it away from other deserving youngsters we want to help.”
“I didn’t mean money, Peter. Is there anyone we can call, someone who could advise her on what she should do?”
“You know more people than I do,” he said. “But if you take my advice, I’d let her work it out herself.”
It was good advice, of course, but I didn’t take it at the time. Looking back now, it might have been better if I had.
Chapter Three
“I
spoke with a friend of mine in New York who knows about copyright law,” I said. “There are things you can do that don’t require hiring a lawyer and that don’t cost very much, if anything.” I was sitting in Janet Blaskowitz’s house on a sunny afternoon. She had Cindy on the speakerphone.
“I don’t know, Mrs. Fletcher,” Cindy said, her voice hesitant. “He said this is done all the time and that I should trust him. If it becomes a big song, I can get a publishing contract and sell my other songs for a lot of money.”
“That’s a big ‘if,’ ” I said. “In the meantime, he’s gambling with your song, your creative work.”
“And he didn’t even let you sing your own song,” Janet put in, leaning closer to the telephone she’d placed in the center of the kitchen table.
“Mom! He said having a good song was only the beginning, that to make it a big seller is all in the marketing, the arrangements, and the performance. And name recognition. Sally Prentice, the girl he has singing it, has already had a music video shown on Country Music Television, and—”
Janet interrupted. “I’m sure your voice would sell better than hers, whoever she is.” She looked over at me. “It just burns me up, Jessica.”
“Thanks, Mom. It’s really great that you feel that way, but this singer is becoming a big name and I’m not—at least not yet.”
I leaned toward the phone. “Did Mr. Marker give you anything in writing that spells out what he told you, that you’ll be getting credit as the cowriter, and be paid?” I asked.
“No, but I didn’t ask,” Cindy replied. There was a distinct sigh in her voice.
“Do you think she should go back and make him put it all down in a letter?” Janet asked me, sliding a plate of cookies next to my teacup.
“Mom, I don’t want to do that.”
“Now listen up, young lady. Mrs. Fletcher went to a lot of trouble, and spoke to important people who know more than you do. You hear her out.”
“But, Mom, Mr. Marker is a good contact. A girl who lives here, Alicia, was impressed that I even knew him. I don’t want to make him angry.”
“Let him be angry,” Janet said. “I’m angry, too.”
I put my hand on Janet’s arm and shook my head. It wouldn’t do to have her upset her daughter even more. Then Cindy might not listen to my advice. “Cindy,” I said, “he’s not a good contact if he’s taking advantage of you. Why don’t you let me tell you what my friend said, and then you can decide what steps you want to take, if any.”
“All right. Sure. Go ahead.”
I remembered what Janet had said, that she could tell how her children were doing by the sound of their voice. I envisioned Cindy with her head down, a picture of resignation as her mother and a meddling neighbor—me—told her what to do. But I wanted her at least to know her options. As a member of the CCC committee, I felt responsible for having sent her to Nashville in the first place. It was supposed to be a time for her to stretch her wings and learn more about the field she had chosen to pursue, and to improve her skills and develop as a performer and creative artist. It was supposed to be a positive experience. I didn’t want it to become a negative one.
While we’d been speaking, Janet’s younger daughters had edged their way though the kitchen door to eavesdrop on the conversation, taking glasses down from the cabinet next to the sink and getting a pitcher of water from the refrigerator. While Cindy had referred to them as the “little ones” on the night of the concert, Liz and Mia were thirteen and ten respectively, one on the brink of young womanhood, the other not far behind. They both had the same auburn-colored hair and freckled noses as their older sister. Only sixteen-year-old Emily, who wasn’t home at the time, had inherited her father’s flaming red curls.
Janet spotted the girls and got up from her seat to shoo them away.
“But, Ma, we were just getting a drink of water,” came the furious whispers.
“You can drink later,” she said as she escorted them from the room.
“Can we have a cookie, too?”
“Later.”
I scanned the notes I’d taken from my conversation with Bart Grossman, an entertainment attorney in New York who’d been recommended to me by my publisher, Vaughan Buckley.
“First,” I said, reading from my notes, “my friend said that a formal copyright is always nice, but that your copyright begins at the time you complete a song.”
“How much does it cost to copyright a song, formally, I mean?” Cindy asked.
“I think he said it’s thirty-five dollars if you register it online, a little more if you send in paperwork.”
“Oh.”
I could imagine the wheels turning in Cindy’s head. At thirty-five dollars a song, with her considerable output, her small stipend could be depleted in no time. “But, as he said,” I continued, “you don’t need to do that to establish your copyright. Are you sure these are
your
songs? If he changed some of the music or lyrics, he could contest any copyright infringements you claim.”
Janet leaned over my shoulder. “Are you writing this down, Cindy?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Mr. Grossman said that if you don’t have a formal copyright you may need to present evidence that a song is yours,” I said.
“I know the song is mine. Mr. Marker doesn’t deny that.”
“That may be true, Cindy, but it’s good advice for the future. If you’ve written your songs on the computer, the program has a section that indicates when the song was created, and each time it was accessed or changed. If you make a demo of your songs on a disc, he told me, it’s a good idea to announce your name, the name of the song, and the date you’re recording it before you start to play and sing.”
“Okay. I usually do that.”
I paused to wonder whether Marker was being straight with her about giving her cocredit as the writer, and whether she’d ever see money from it.
“It would be a good idea, Cindy, to gather information that proves you wrote the song Mr. Marker has given to this other singer.”
“But—”
“Just in case,” I said. “Make copies of your original e-mails to Mr. Marker, and his e-mails to you.”
“Sometimes I just talked to him on the phone.”
“Did you keep any notes of your conversations?”
“I wrote about it in my diary.”
“Good. Make copies of those pages. And if you spoke to friends about those calls, make a note of that, too. You’ll also need a printout from the computer showing the date you started writing the song. Make copies of everything you can think of that relate to the songs, and keep them in a folder.”
“What do I do with the folder?”
“Just keep it in a safe place for now,” I said. “That’s your paper trail. If you ever need to present evidence in court, which is highly unlikely, you have it.”
“Okay. I think I can manage that. Anything else?”
“The best thing to do is to write a very polite letter notifying Mr. Marker that he’s using your song without permission.”
“A letter? But I already told him that.”
“This is more of that paper trail I told you about,” I said. “A letter, which you should send by registered mail, shows you’re making a good-faith effort to resolve your differences. You state again that he doesn’t have permission to give your song to this other singer, and ask him to assure you in writing that you’ll receive proper credit and compensation. I’m assuming that’s what you want.”
“I want
Cindy
to sing it,” Janet said, taking one of her own cookies. “ ‘Talkin’ Through the Tears’ was her best song.”
Cindy mumbled something.
“What was that?” Janet said. “Do you have someone else there with you?”
“No, Mom. Would you please just let Mrs. Fletcher finish.”
“Stop whining, Cindy. I’m sorry, Jessica. What were you going to say?”
I was beginning to think this was not a good idea. I didn’t want to create a rift between Cindy and her mother. I had hoped to save Janet the expense of hiring a lawyer, which she wouldn’t have done anyway. But was I the right person to be presenting this information? Legal advice is best given in person by a lawyer rather than over the phone by a stand-in. I wasn’t equipped to answer too many questions, only the ones I’d happened to ask Bart. I hurried to finish the instructions. “Cindy, you should end the letter by telling him you’ll give him five days to respond. And then thank him for his attention to this matter.”
“I don’t think he’ll pay
any
attention,” Cindy said.
“Why five days?” Janet asked.
“If you don’t give him a deadline, he might just ignore the letter and never respond. He may not respond anyway, but a deadline indicates there will be more to come if he doesn’t.”