Meghan

by Andrew Morton

  As a sorority member, she also participated in the Northwestern University Dance Marathon, one of the biggest student-run charities in America. The year Meghan danced was the first time since the event’s inception in 1974 that a woman, Ginger Harrald, was the emcee, though she shared the duties with a male student. While the dance marathon was no longer the grueling win-or-die dancefest of the Depression era, the thirty hours Meghan spent on her feet, day and night, certainly helped her work off her “freshman fifteen,” the weight she had packed on from drinking, munching starchy dorm food, and making late-night trips to the twenty-four-hour Burger King.

  Though the drinking age was twenty-one, Meghan, like so many other students, bought herself a fake ID card so that she could go enjoy the bars of Evanston. She was a regular at the Keg, a dodgy student favorite that was eventually closed down after numerous run-ins with city officials over underage drinking. Bouncers used to joke when students finally handed over a real ID once they had genuinely turned twenty-one: “Well, it’s about time.”

  Of course, all this socializing did have a focus—the search for a boyfriend. More sophisticated and put together than most of her contemporaries, Meghan was seen as a cool catch. Normally she went for well-dressed Latin boyfriends like Luis Segura but changed gears during her time at Northwestern. Her first boyfriend was Steve Lepore, a chiseled, white, six foot five sophomore basketball player from Ohio. He made Meghan, at five foot six, feel petite. Her association with Lapore raised her stock with her KKG sorority sisters, who were “impressed she’d snared a hottie.” “They made quite the pair,” recalled a former classmate, but their relationship was short lived. For his junior and senior year, the high-scoring basketball star accepted a transfer offer to Wake Forest University in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. Goodbye, Meghan; hello, basketball pro prospects.

  While they made a perfect-looking college couple, they had their differences. Steve’s sports ambitions meant that he had to forego partying and turn in early, and the night before any game, Meghan was not welcome to stay over. Meghan, on the other hand, was a party animal who enjoyed the freedom college offered away from her parents, and drinking and staying out late.

  While she may have lost her freshman-year boyfriend, Meghan did make two very close friends at Northwestern who would stay with her for life.

  It was during a literature class, discussing the work of African American writer Toni Morrison, that she first met Lindsay Jill Roth, a petite blond from Lattingtown, New York, a wealthy Long Island suburb with million-dollar homes overlooking Oyster Bay. Her parents were attorneys, though her mother had retired. Unlike Meghan’s friends from Immaculate Heart, Lindsay was Jewish. Smart, funny, and articulate, the two girls would study together, go out drinking and dancing, and chat long into the night, talking up a storm.

  Her other best friend could not have been more different. The son of two pastors, Larnelle Quentin Foster was a flamboyant, larger-than-life African American who hid the fact that he was gay from his family and friends—although he eventually confided in Meghan. Meghan and Larnelle took classes together in the School of Communications after Meghan changed her major from English to a dual major of theater arts and international relations. The twin major reflected her indecision about whether to pursue a career in politics and the diplomatic world or strive for screen stardom. Though the latter was, as she recognized, something of an LA cliché, she was in good company—Warren Beatty, Stephen Colbert, Zach Braff, and David Schwimmer all learned their trade at the school. Larnelle, however, couldn’t help but notice that her enthusiasm was more for Hollywood than the State Department. The two, who attended everything from student productions to avant-garde offerings, enjoyed discussing the theatrical structure and language of a play as much as performing. Meghan took parts in the short films made by fellow students, and she also slipped away from campus to attend auditions for TV commercials. She was doing what college students have done for years: trying the new and the difficult and seeing what fits. On weekends Meghan would often go to Larnelle’s family home for meals, the two friends trying out different recipes, including Meghan’s current specialty, Indian food.

  The Foster family adored Meghan, attracted by her quirky sense of humor and her effervescent smile. She even accepted their invitation to join them at church. “Larnelle, you know if I had my way, you’d settle down with Meghan. I just love that girl,” his mother told him. “I know, Mom,” he replied. He also knew that he would break his mother’s heart if she discovered that he was gay. For the time being Meghan was his cover, and he in turn provided her with companionship and an escort, a role which made him the envy of many of the straight guys on campus. “How do you go out with her?” they asked him. “Because I’m not trying anything!” laughed Larnelle.

  Meghan’s two closest friends represented the duality of her heritage, the iconoclastic, eccentric and independent African American and the white professional. Their presence helped her to explore and integrate these sides of her personality, absorbing and synthesizing as she grew into her own identity.

  Between semesters, it was a relief to be back in Los Angeles not only for the weather but also for the diversity, where the blond and blue-eyed are a minority. As she learned, though, the image of tolerance and acceptance was a veneer that easily scratched.

  She tells a story about one night she and her mom went to a concert. As Doria was slowly backing her Volvo out of the parking space, another driver impatiently yelled at her, using the N-word. Meghan flushed, her skin prickling with frustration, feeling as well Doria’s pain and rage. Meghan looked at her mother and saw her eyes welling with tears. Meghan whispered the only words she could manage: “It’s okay, Mommy.” But it wasn’t okay. They drove home in silence, blood pounding in Meghan’s ears, Doria’s fingers gripping the steering wheel tightly.

  The practical experience of growing up biracial was used as a jumping-off point for discussions Meghan and seven other classmates had with their history and theater professor, Harvey Young, whose seminars focused on African American plays and their meaning, impact, and history. Meghan, who had moved between two communities throughout her life, was very aware of how people responded to race, racial differences, and the idea of otherness. Young said, “She had a very sophisticated understanding of what it means to live in a racial body that gets perceived and is treated differently based upon communities in which you find yourself.”

  Young’s class brought into focus Meghan’s ambiguous place in society. She later recalled: “It was the first time I could put a name to feeling too light in the black community, too mixed in the white community.”

  Her experiences at Northwestern, both in and out of the classroom, and the self-knowledge she gained would serve her well, arming her with insight and inner strength when she tried to penetrate the smooth, evasive structure that is Hollywood.

  By the start of her junior year, it was clear that if Meghan continued at her current pace she would earn most of her credits for her degree way ahead of schedule. As she had time on her side and was still unsure about her path after college, she decided to go into the field to gain some practical experience in international relations. She knew that her uncle Mick Markle was employed as a specialist in communication systems for the US government—the talk in the family was that he worked for the CIA, the government’s overseas spying arm. So she approached him to ask for his help in getting her an internship abroad with the State Department. “Meghan, I will help you if I can,” he replied. Help he did. Uncle Mick pulled a few strings, and even though Meghan was quite late in turning in the application paperwork, that was overlooked because of her excellent academic record and her uncle’s influence. Soon after, she was informed that she had secured a six-week internship as a junior press officer at the American embassy in Buenos Aires, Argentina.

  It was quite the adventure for the twenty-year-old, flying from Los Angeles to Buenos Aires on her own. She joined a team of nearly thirty State Department official
s and guards in the mid-sized American enclave. Before starting work, she was given an orientation to the building complex and the city, safety being the primary focus. The young student was warned about where to avoid, what to do in an emergency, and which telephone numbers to call—basic but vital information. With the anniversary of 9/11 approaching, the threat level for all American embassies around the world, including the embassy in Buenos Aires, had been raised to Code Orange security, the second highest level.

  For the most part, her day-to-day life was the routine and mundane world of the office grunt, filing, answering phones, and drafting letters. As a consummate team player, she impressed her superiors with her enthusiasm and demeanor.

  She was a willing worker, undertaking the tedious, run-of-the-mill jobs quickly and efficiently. Her superior, Mark Krischik, now retired, recalled her as a young woman who was good to work with and who carried out her assignments with “efficiency and ingenuity.” Though memories are hazy, there was talk of a dalliance with a US Marine tasked to guard the embassy compound. But what was more certain was her love of the Spanish cuisine and the city’s buzzing nightlife.

  As it was her twenty-first birthday on August 4, 2002, she was given permission to travel in the convoy that was picking up the US finance secretary Paul O’Neill, who was making a whistle stop visit to South America. It was a treat. However, her opportunity to be treated like a VIP for an hour or two rapidly turned into a terrifying ordeal.

  She was waiting in the motorcade when Secretary O’Neill landed at Ezeiza Airport, fifteen miles outside the center of Buenos Aires. Argentina had recently defaulted on a $141 billion debt, and neither the International Monetary Fund nor the American government were in any mood to bail them out. Before he left Washington, O’Neill had announced that South American nations should have policies in place to “ensure that aid is not diverted to Swiss bank accounts.” Though his target was the corrupt political elites siphoning off billions of dollars into their own personal bank accounts, the suffering man and woman in the street blamed the United States for the economic calamity that had befallen them. After he landed at precisely five o’clock. his motorcade drove to a meeting with President Eduardo Duhalde, head of the interim government. Though O’Neill was expecting a bumpy ride, even he was perturbed when banner-waving demonstrators surrounded the convoy. “I remember the arrival because protestors banged on my limo with their placards. It was a memorable event,” he later deadpanned.

  The junior press officer was terrified, recalling that it was the scariest moment of her life. It was all the more concerning as the American embassy was already on orange alert not only because of the impending anniversary of 9/11 but because of intelligence reports suggesting that Islamic militants could be setting up a network in South America. Meghan would have already been wary, and it’s easy to imagine how frightening she would have found an angry mob of protesters attacking her car.

  However, the experience certainly didn’t seem to put her off considering her future working for the government agency. “If she had stayed with the State Department she would have been an excellent addition to the US diplomatic corps. She had all that it takes to be a successful diplomat,” Mark Krischik recalled.

  Certainly she was sufficiently committed to a career with the State Department to take the Foreign Service Officer Test while she was still in Argentina. The three-hour exam is a mix of politics, history, general knowledge, and math, requiring an awareness of everything from the origin of be-bop to East Asian labor laws. It proved a stretch too far, and Meghan failed the exam. There were consolations, though: Meghan spent a further six weeks from school at the IES study program in Madrid, where she polished her Spanish.

  When she returned to Northwestern she was able to regale her friends with tales of tapas and tango, and tried to brush off her disappointment at missing the mark on her Foreign Service Officer test. In any case, fate, it would seem, was pushing her into the world of entertainment. Her lighting director father pulled favors to put her forward for a casual role on General Hospital, just as he had done with his eldest daughter almost a decade earlier. In November 2002, Meghan auditioned for a day player role where she said around five lines. Thanks to her father’s influence, she got the part. The episode aired just before Thanksgiving.

  A few weeks later she was at a holiday party with friends when she was approached by a man who introduced himself as Drew. Instead of wanting to date her, he wanted to manage her. A friend had slipped him a copy of a student film in which Meghan had appeared, and he was impressed, calling Meghan to tell her, “You know what, you’re going to make money, and I’ll take 10 percent. I think you should stick around.”

  But at that time in her life Meghan couldn’t stick around. She had courses to finish back at Northwestern and a graduation to attend. But she promised she’d be back. As she saw it, as one door had closed, another one opened. If the State Department didn’t want her, maybe Hollywood did.

  Once home from Northwestern, diploma in hand, Meghan went out and auditioned for commercials, none of which she booked, but was good for experience. By now this was a well-trodden route, Meghan having attended numerous auditions when she was still at Northwestern. Then she got a call. Her best friend from college, Lindsay Jill Roth, was working in casting for a film called A Lot Like Love starring comic heartthrob Ashton Kutcher. She had snagged Meghan a place for an audition with a one-word role.

  “Can you say, ‘Hi’?” asked the director.

  “Yes, I can,” replied Meghan. “But I read the script and I really respond to this other character and I would love to read for that.” Naturally the other character had a bigger role.

  The director and the casting staff exchanged glances. This girl certainly has some balls, their looks said. Meghan didn’t get the role she pitched herself for, but she did get the part for which Roth had recommended her. Once on set, the director allowed her to improvise, expanding her lines from one to five. In movie terms that was a triumph.

  Next she landed another small part in the futuristic law office drama Century City, starring Viola Davis and Nestor Carbonell, among other old hands. She played a staff member and delivered one line: “Here’s to Tom Montero, who had the vision to install this amazing virtual assistant.” Her scene was over in one day, and she was back to casting calls, at the mercy of the Abominable No Men. It was a scratchy hand-to-mouth existence, one experienced by thousands of Hollywood hopefuls.

  On the way to an audition one day, the electric button that unlocked the doors to her Jeep Explorer failed to open. She tried the key but to no avail. Trying not to panic, she went around to the hatchback, which used a different key. By some miracle, it opened. Running short on time, she had no choice but to crawl in through the back and clamber over the seat. Thank goodness she was in shape from yoga and running, and thank goodness the car started and had a full tank of gas. When she got to the casting studio, she pulled into a deserted part of the parking lot and exited the same way.

  Too broke to get her Jeep repaired, Meghan repeated this routine for months, parking far from other cars and waiting for the coast to clear before emerging from the hatch, feigning that she was searching in the back of the car for a script or photos before climbing back inside.

  Of course, she knew there would be setbacks. Meghan had been around the entertainment industry for too long to believe in rags-to-riches stories. So, she stayed optimistic. Her motto was “I choose happiness,” and she made it a point to stay happy, getting together with friends over pizza and wine, taking yoga classes, and going out as much as her budget permitted. One night her budget took her to a dive bar in West Hollywood that had been popularized by the young Turks in the entertainment industry (young hotshots keen on challenging the older Hollywood establishment) who liked to feel that they were slumming in an authentic beatnik environment. A loud voice tinged with a New York accent caught her attention. The owner of the voice was shooting the breeze with a couple of friends.

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nbsp; Over six feet tall with reddish blond hair and blue eyes, Trevor Engelson looked like a surfer or volleyball player, an archetypal California golden boy. He had the drawl and the air of a Matthew McConaughey lite, although he was born and raised in Great Neck, New York, the son of a successful orthodontist and great-grandson of Jewish immigrants.

  Like Francis Ford Coppola, Trevor had attended Great Neck North High School, and like Coppola, he originally wanted to direct movies. “I realized you needed talent to do that, so that was out the window,” he says self-deprecatingly. While still in high school, he managed to get himself hired as a production assistant on shoots in New York City, working tirelessly on weekends and during school breaks. The experience paid off and he was admitted to the Annenberg School of Cinematic Arts at the University of Southern California. He was on his way.

  After he graduated in 1998, Trevor worked on the low-budget movie Safe Men, notable only for the appearance of Paul Giamatti as the strangely monikered Veal Chop. Then Engelson, who liked to think of himself as a hustler, was hired on Deep Blue Sea—a film that needlessly demonstrated the inevitably bloody consequences of genetically engineering super intelligent great white sharks—as a staff assistant. During his time in the office he studied how his bosses, the movie’s producers, worked. He liked what he saw. It didn’t seem that they were working very hard and yet they made a lot of money and got the prettiest girls. He approached one of the producers, Alan Riche, and told him earnestly: “Alan, I want to do what you do. I want to produce.” Riche advised him that first he had to work as an agent. Once Deep Blue Sea wrapped Riche got the ambitious assistant a referral to the Endeavor Talent Agency. He started at the bottom of the ladder in the mailroom working as a driver, delivering scripts and other agency-related packages around town.

  Trevor was personable and eager, and in due time he worked his way up to assistant to the motion picture literary agent Chris Donnelly. He was on the fast track to higher things. Then his ambition got in the way. While Donnelley was on vacation, Trevor sent out uncommissioned scripts, known as spec scripts, to actors and directors under the Endeavor letterhead. “I thought I was being a self-starter,” Trevor admitted later. While there were no lasting hard feelings, he was fired for overstepping his remit. Never down for long, he quickly found work as an assistant to fellow USC alumni Nick Osborne and his partner Jeffrey Zarnow at O/Z Films. As Trevor put it: “They needed a hustler who could bring food to the table.”