Snyder’s complaint reads like a novel. It even starts in an exotic locale, with the two men meeting over the 2001 to 2002 winter holidays in Anguilla, just a few weeks after Bronfman stepped down from his role as executive vice chairman of Vivendi. Snyder says Bronfman asked him to be his consig­liere—to work with him and help him find a deal he could use as a platform on which to build a new multibillion-dollar business. He says the two shook hands, agreeing that Bronfman would give Snyder “fair and equitable” payment. An amended version of Snyder’s lawsuit goes so far as to say the two entered into a “for-profit joint venture,” in which profits would be shared.

Bronfman’s attorney, Orin Snyder (no relation to Dick Snyder) of Gibson Dunn & Crutcher, laughs at the suggestion that Bronfman, a man with easy access to top business advisers, would agree to such an open-ended arrangement with a man he’d only just met. “This is like saying that after their very first date, they agreed to get married—without the ability to get divorced,” he says. “Edgar has never operated that way. And that’s why there’s no contract.”

In any event, the two seem to have agreed to go on a few more dates. Bronfman had a suite of offices at Lever House, at 390 Park Avenue. Snyder moved in and, after buying his own computer, was given an email ­account on the company network of Lexa Partners, a private entity controlled by Bronfman. Bronfman’s brother-in-law had an office in the suite, along with Bronfman pal Gary Fuhrman of GF Capital, an investment banking boutique with which Bronfman did business. As far as Snyder was concerned, he was now partners with Bronfman.

Bronfman’s camp has put out an entirely different story: that he was just being nice to the old guy, giving him an office so he could feel relevant again. The media had mercilessly abused Snyder for the Golden Books failure, an experience to which Bronfman could relate. “Edgar knew that Dick Snyder was at loose ends and needed a place to hang his hat,” says Orin Snyder. “He generously offered him an office in his suite—no more, no less.”

But there’s no question that Dick Snyder was making calls and taking meetings with Bronfman for some time before—and after—the Warner deal was inked, in November 2003. In 2002, for example, they almost teamed up with the private equity colossus Blackstone to take control of Columbia House, the direct marketer of music and videos jointly owned by Sony and Time Warner, a near miss Snyder describes in detail in his complaint.

Snyder had a pretty good connection at Columbia House: Chairman and C.E.O. Scott Flanders had been an ­employee of Snyder’s at Simon & Schuster. After being alerted to the impending sale of Columbia House, Snyder asked Flanders if he was comfortable with his bringing Bronfman into a potential deal. Flanders said yes, and Snyder says terms were hammered out. For a $25 million investment, Snyder and Bronfman ­together would control 20 percent of the company (Blackstone would own the rest), and each would receive board seats.

 
Then, Snyder alleges, Bronfman made a power play, deciding he would team with Goldman Sachs rather than Blackstone to try to take outright control of the firm and appoint himself chairman. But he miscalculated: In May 2002, Blackstone submitted the winning bid for Columbia House, and neither Snyder nor Bronfman had a part in the deal. (Bronfman’s camp doesn’t deny that he engaged in discussions about Columbia House but says Snyder’s version of events is highly distorted.)

Snyder knows he can hardly ask to be compensated for a transaction his own lawyers refer to as “the deal that got away.” Instead, his success at trial will probably hinge on the court’s view of the nature of his role in the $2.6 billion Warner Music purchase by Bronfman and a consortium of private equity ­investors. Though a number of participants in the deal say they didn’t have any interaction with Snyder during the transaction, he insists that not only was he crucial, but that it was his idea. “Dick’s problem in all this is that he’s kind of like Karl Rove, who’s always there but never there,” says a former colleague. Adds Orin Snyder: “Simply put, Dick Snyder did not work on the Warner Music Group transaction, and there was never an agreement to compensate him for anything.”

He’s not the only one of that opinion. “I don’t think we ever saw Dick Snyder during the process,” says a ­senior member of the private equity group. “And the notion that he gave Edgar the idea is garbage, because we were the ones who brought Edgar into the deal.” The consortium, he goes on to say, had been in discussions with Time Warner point man Rob Marcus about a number of possible deals, discussions Dick Snyder had no part in. Another person close to the proceedings has a similar take: “The folks at some of the financial sponsors were well aware of Dick’s reputation and said there’s no way that he’s getting near this deal.” Completing the trifecta, Snyder says in his lawsuit that Gary Fuhrman told him in 2005 that if he did sue, Fuhrman would testify that Snyder had nothing to do with the due diligence or the closing of the deal. Game, set, match.

Or perhaps not. When confronted with these assertions, Snyder is unper­turbed. “I had nothing to do with those guys,” he says of the private ­equity group. “I never said I did. My deal was with Edgar.” Snyder’s version of events: In the summer of 2003, when all the world thought that a merger that had been announced between Warner Music and rival B.M.G. was a fait accompli, Snyder heard from sources on both sides of the deal that negotiations were falling apart. “No one knew what I knew,” he says. “Edgar didn’t say, ‘Let’s go buy Warner.’ Warner was sold. Merged. Edgar didn’t know it wasn’t. I did. And I knew it was a doable deal.”