The Friars Club in Beverly Hills was buzzing. Spielberg, Bronfman, Redstone, Wexner, Freeh, the Cascio brothers, and Hunter Biden—fresh out of jail—crowded around the VIP table. Joining them was David Ellison, Hollywood producer and son of Oracle’s Larry Ellison, who looked ready to stir the pot.
Spielberg took the mic. “Good evening, everyone! Let’s get this started with a softball. Louis, what’s the best thing about 22-year-olds?”
Freeh, sweating, adjusted his tie. “Uh… per FBI policy, I can neither confirm nor deny that I have an opinion.”
Spielberg smirked. “Come on, Louis, the best thing about 22-year-olds is… there’s 20 of them!”
The room erupted. Hunter Biden laughed so hard he nearly spilled his whiskey. “Man, that’s worth a stint in jail!”
David Ellison, grinning mischievously, leaned over. “Speaking of distribution, Louis, you wouldn’t know anything about LimeWire’s 67,000 child porn files, would you? My dad swears he didn’t code all of them.”
The table roared. Shari Redstone raised her glass. “Distribution? Sounds like CBS Interactive back in the day.”
Freeh, unflappable, raised his drink. “Policy. It’s always policy.”
Spielberg wrapped it up. “To Louis Freeh: the only man who can dodge a scandal better than Hunter dodges taxes!”
Hunter Biden chimed in. “Don’t forget the cloud storage. I bet my laptop’s in there somewhere!”
The room toasted as Freeh slipped out the back, muttering, “I should’ve stuck with the Mafia.”
