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was exchanged for ten thousand dollars in American Express traveler's checks." "And who cashed it?"
    "Mr. David Begelman , the president of Columbia Picture s. He apparently told Mr. Lipshe r at the time that he was about to leave on a trip and would be traveling with Mr. Robertson."
    "Thank you, Lorie."
    Robertson and Kahaner hung up and stared at each other. Cliff was too shocked to speak.
    "Let's review what we know, Cliff," Kahaner said. "We know the following things for sure: You never received this money and obviously were not owed it. Yet a check obviously was made out to you and cashed. We have it right here in front of us. Begelman 's story about the young man—the 'mystery is solved' story—obviously was a lie. Begelman almost certainly forged your signature and cashed the check himself, and bought traveler's checks in his own name. I guess there's still a slight possibility of an innocent explanation, no matter how bizarre, but that appears extremely unlikely. We have to face the fact that David Begelman almost certainly used your name to embezzle ten thousand dollars from Columbia Pictures. It's possible that this is just the tip of an iceberg. You just may be sitting on a hydrogen bomb."
    "What do I do now?"
    "I think you should seek legal counsel. It's possible that you could just let it go and nothing more would come of it. But suppose something surfaces through another channel. Suppose somebody else catches Begelman stealing, and they investigate and trace this transaction back to you. If you haven't reported it, or at least gotten legal advice, it's going to look like either you actually got the money or were covering up for Begelman ."
    Robertson and Kahaner discussed lawyers and decided Cliff should not use the attorney who normally handled his movie and television contracts, Gunthe r Schiff. Schiff, who had practiced law in the Hollywood community for a quarter of a century, had long been friendly with David Begelman, and Cliff felt that Schiff might feel awkward in a sensitive criminal inquiry that pitted him against Begelman. Instead, Cliff chose to call Seth Hufste dler, the senior partner of a distinguished Los Angeles law firm which did relatively little entertainment w ork but handled a number of nonentertainme nt matters for the Robertson family.* Nervous and agitated, Robertson phoned Hufstedler from Kahaner's office and ex plained the situation. Hufstedle r asked Robertson to come to his office immediately. Another taxi was called, and Cliff and a confused, restless Heather Robertson headed several miles down the Hollywood Freeway to the Crocker Bank Plaza in downtown Los Angeles and the twenty-second floor suite of Beardsley, Hufstedler & Kemble.
    The legal community in downtown Los Angeles differed sharply in appearance and atmosphere from its counterpart across town in Beverly Hills and Century City. The downtown firms served mainly banks and big corporations and functioned with the unspoken but firm conviction that they actually practiced law while their show business brethren merely made and unmade deals between childish people engaged in childish endeavors. While that was a considerable exaggeration, the contrasting tones of the two communities suggested at a minimum different styles. In Beverly Hills law offices, one saw open collars and gold baubles, Record World and Daily Variety, and bright—sometimes garish—decor. The chatter tended to be loud, urgent, and constant. Downtown, there were ties, three-piece suits. The Wall Street Journal, bland motifs and subdued, well-modulated conversations.
    Seth Hufstedler, a former president of the California and Los Angeles County bar associations, was a slim, unassuming man in his middle fifties with white hair and a small beard and mustache. He spoke with a quiet resonance and his manner was calm, precise, and unemotional. After h earing Robertson's story, Hufste dler said he would report the matter to law enforcement authorities immediately.