Ida Tarbell Page #16

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EXT. CLEVELAND - DAY

Ida & Siddal are on foot, going door to door in residential

neighborhoods.

Door #1:
A stately townhouse. Ida knocks, and Judge Martin

Knapp answers. (We recognize him from an earlier snatch.)

IDA:

Mr. Knapp?

KNAPP:

Yes?

IDA:

Judge Martin Knapp?

KNAPP:

I’m retired now. Who are you?

IDA:

Hello sir, I’m Ida Tarbell. This is John

Siddal. We work for McClure’s magazine in

New York.

Knapp stares back at them. Not happy.

IDA:

I just wanted to ask you some questions

about your role as Chairman of the ICC.

When I spoke with Willie Harkness in New

York, he said that you had -

KNAPP:

You’ve got some nerve coming here. You

people ought to be ashamed of yourselves,

destroying a good man’s reputation like

that. You think you’re so smart, but you

don’t know a goddamn thing about anything.

IDA:

Judge Knapp, if I could just ask you about

this report you had commissioned -

KNAPP:

You're invading my privacy, and the privacy

of my family.

82.

KNAPP (CONT'D)

If you don’t leave, I’ll sue you and that

gossip rag of a magazine you work for.

(beat)

Get off my property.

SLAM! Ida and Siddal just stand there. Share a look.

Door #2:
Ida knocks. A sweet old lady peers out at them.

IDA:

Mrs. Peterson?

OLD LADY:

Yes?

IDA:

Hello, I’m Ida Tarbell, this is John

Siddal. We’re from McClure’s Magazine in

New York. I hate to bother you at home, but

is your husband here? Mr. Arnold Peterson?

OLD LADY:

My husband is dead. He died five years ago.

IDA:

(oops)

I’m terribly sorry.

Slam!

Door #3:
A tired middle-aged woman. Angry barking dog.

IDA:

Miss Wilkinson?

MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN

Yes?

IDA:

We’re from McClure’s magazine, and we’re

doing a story on Standard Oil. I wonder if

we could speak to you for just a minute.

MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN

(yanking the dog)

Buster, no!

(to Ida)

I know who you are, and I know what you’re

doing. But that doesn’t mean I’ll talk to

you. Round here, people have to actually

work for a living, and jobs are hard to

come by. Standard Oil employs a whole lot

of people in Cleveland, and most of them

would rather not starve.

83.

IDA:

You worked in the accounting department, is

that correct?

MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN

I’m sorry. Can’t help you.

CUT TO:
A WHOLE SERIES OF FACES NOW

In quick succession, standing in doorways. Current or former

employees of Standard Oil. Nothing in common but their fear.

All shake their heads “no.” Not willing to talk on or even

off the record about Standard Oil.

Feeling dejected, Ida and Siddal turn to go.

SIDDAL:

I never knew that being a writer could make

you so scary.

IDA:

But it’s not us they’re afraid of, is it?

SIDDAL:

So what do we do now?

IDA:

I have no idea.

INT. RESTAURANT - ST. DENIS HOTEL - NEW YORK - DAY

Sam McClure sits in a private booth, anxiously checking his

watch. Finally, Ida plops down opposite, looking exhausted.

SAM MCCLURE:

You’re late. How was Cleveland?

IDA:

Terrible. A mysterious epidemic of amnesia

has broken out. “I don’t remember, I can’t

recall, it was a long time ago...”

SAM MCCLURE:

Getting tired of it?

A waiter glides in, smiles warmly at Ida (thinking she’s one

of Sam’s mistresses). This is not lost on Ida.

WAITER:

Something to drink for the lady?

IDA:

I’ll have whatever he’s having.

84.

SAM MCCLURE:

Scotch and soda. Easy on the soda.

The waiter disappears. McClure slides a folder across the

table at Ida.

SAM MCCLURE (CONT’D)

Well, this ought to cheer you up.

As Ida flicks through the file.

SAM MCCLURE (CONT’D)

We received an anonymous “tip” of a William

Avery Rockefeller, 93 years of age, living

on a chicken farm in Sioux Falls North

Dakota. A reporter at the Plain Dealer

checked it out. It’s the real deal.

IDA:

His father? But I thought he was dead?

SAM MCCLURE:

Alive and kicking. Only out there he’s

known as “Doctor” William Livingston, and

guess what?

IDA:

He’s not a doctor.

SAM MCCLURE:

(nods)

It seems Rockefeller P.re is a snake-oil

salesman, with a criminal record as long as

my arm. Guns, liquor, whores. He even

killed an Indian. Now how would that go

over at the Church picnic, do you think?

Ida thinks on it a second, then closes the file.

IDA:

That’s great. But we can’t use it.

SAM MCCLURE:

Why not?

IDA:

Because it’s gossip. Print that and we’d

lose all credibility. The story I’m writing

is called a “History of the Standard Oil

Company.” Not some crazy chicken farmer!

SAM MCCLURE:

Your call. I was only trying to help.

The waiter returns with their drinks. A beat, then:

85.

SAM MCCLURE:

You know, my wife thinks we’re having an

affair.

It hangs there for a moment, like a question mark.

IDA:

(arch)

What ever gave her that idea, I wonder. I’m

not a poet. Or is it a “poetess”?

SAM MCCLURE:

You’re referring to Miss Wilkinson I’m

sure, but we’re not involved any more.

IDA:

(mock surprise)

Oh? And whose turn is it this month?

SAM MCCLURE:

(chastened)

You don’t approve, do you Miss Tarbell. I

can feel your reproachful gaze upon me like

a cold wind in August.

IDA:

I respect a man’s wedding vows, even if he

does not.

SAM MCCLURE:

Are you always this hard on men? I’m

beginning to think that you don’t like us

very much.

IDA:

(smiles)

On the contrary. I happen to love men. I

prefer their company over women.

SAM MCCLURE:

Oh? Why’s that?

IDA:

Maybe it’s because they always appear to

have more fun than we do.

A pause. McClure pulls out a letter from his inside pocket,

hands it to Ida.

SAM MCCLURE:

Well, try this for fun. I received a letter

from the Attorney General’s Office in

Washington D.C. Reminding us of our

obligation to the privacy protection act.

86.

IDA:

I guess a lot of money will buy you a lot

friends.

SAM MCCLURE:

You’ve got one more month to make your case

on Rockefeller. Frankly, I’m amazed that he

hasn’t sued us already. Do you think he’s

even reading?

IDA:

I don’t know. But I can tell you who is.

Ida pulls out a letter of her own, hands it to McClure. Waits

for his reaction. He looks up at her, absolutely stunned.

SAM MCCLURE:

You’re joking me?

(Ida shakes her head)

When?

IDA:

This Friday.

SAM MCCLURE:

Does he mention me in here at all?

It is my name on the cover after all...

CUT TO:

INT. THE WHITE HOUSE - DAY

TEDDY ROOSEVELT, striding towards us, big smile. At only 46

years of age, the 26th President of the United States is a

vigorous young man, exuding an air of rugged masculinity.

TEDDY ROOSEVELT:

Miss Tarbell, welcome! What an absolute

pleasure it is to meet you.

He pumps Ida’s hand vigorously, a little too vigorously.

IDA:

Mr. President. The pleasure is mine.

TEDDY ROOSEVELT:

Please, call me Colonel, or Theodore. We

don’t get too hung up on titles around

here. Come on in...

(to his butler)

George, have them set up lunch now.

He ushers her inside the Oval Office.

TEDDY ROOSEVELT:

So, how do you like my little office?

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