Go-Between (15 page)

“Excuse me.”

A deep, male voice. Michelle turned.

A big black man in a rust-colored suit and black shirt. Shaved head.

“I'm sorry to interrupt. Are you Caitlin O'Connor?”

Caitlin hesitated. Michelle could see her shrink back into her seat. Then she straightened up and nodded. “I am.”

The man stuck out his hand. A big hand, like a basketball player's.

God, stop thinking in clichés, Michelle told herself.

Besides, he really looked more like a football player: muscular, solid, a little thick through the middle.

Caitlin took his hand, with that same hesitation she'd shown before. Her hand was dwarfed in his. He handled her hand gently, Michelle thought. Not a squeeze, just letting it rest there a moment.

“I'm Troy Stone. I was really hoping to meet you tonight.”

“Oh,” Caitlin said, with a sort of brightness that sounded more studied than sincere. “Are you coming to the event?”

He let out a chuckle. “Not exactly. I'm with PCA. Positive Community Action.”

“I think I've heard of you,” Caitlin said distantly.

“I'm not surprised. Though we've been playing opposite ends of the field, it seems like.”

He crouched down next to Caitlin. Michelle could see him better now. His face was all planes joined at sharp angles. She hadn't thought he was handsome at first glance, but his eyes were nice, she thought: big, dark and expressive. Now they were focused on Caitlin.

“I'd really like to talk to you about your efforts here in California. I've heard a lot of what you have to say, and I think we want the same things. We just have different ideas of how to go about it.”

“Very different ideas, from what I understand.”

Caitlin's body language—sitting back in her chair, arms crossed—was clear. She wanted nothing to do with him.

He shifted on his haunches, like something was hurting him, and then he held very still.

“Mrs. O'Connor
. . .
I've lost people too.”

They stared at each other. Michelle had the oddest feeling just then, that she'd somehow intruded on a private moment.

“All right,” Caitlin said abruptly, uncrossing her arms. Still watchful. “There's no reason we can't talk. Michelle, would you make sure to get Mr. Stone's contact information? We'll set up a time.”

“Now, in the months
coming up, you're gonna hear a lot of talk.”

Matthew Moss stood at the podium. He'd been talking for a while. In her seat at Table #1, Michelle was close enough to see him sweat.

“You're gonna hear talk about how pot is harmless. You're gonna hear talk about how we're sending too many people to prison. You know what they aren't gonna talk about?”

He paused. Put both his hands on the podium. Leaned forward.

“How since we got tougher on crime, crime rates in the US have gone down. Way down.”

Michelle watched a bead of sweat roll down his forehead, getting caught on his eyebrow.

“What we've done is made America safer. And anyone who tells you otherwise? Is either deluded, a criminal
. . .
Or a
poverty pimp
.”

If that was one of his catchphrases, he really ought to practice saying it in front of a microphone without popping his Ps, Michelle thought.

“There are people out there who profit from keeping poor people down. From keeping them dependent on big government. On handouts from Uncle Sugar.
Poverty pimps
.” He laughed. “You know what they
don't
want? They don't want people helping themselves. Working their way up. Taking responsibility for their own actions. Because if that happened? They'd all be out of a job!”

Polite laughter.

Did the people in this crowd really buy any of this? Michelle wondered. They seemed to be willing to write big, fat checks for it.

“All this talk about how we need to put fewer people in jail, well, I do agree with that. But I disagree with how we make that happen. We don't let criminals go free.” He slapped the podium. The low, hollow thud echoed through the ballroom. “We demand people take responsibility for their own actions. We examine cultural dysfunctions, honestly, without letting special interests and politically correct garbage get in the way.” He slapped the podium again. “Why aren't we talking about black-on-black violence? Why isn't anyone willing to look honestly at that?”

Next to her, Caitlin sighed. She leaned over to Michelle. “Honey, can you pass me some of that wine?”

Michelle really didn't want to. If she'd counted correctly, Caitlin had polished off four glasses already. And as usual, she hadn't eaten much, though the dinner was several cuts above the usual banquet fare—the poached Skuna Bay salmon with red quinoa and ratatouille from local vegetables wasn't half-bad, Michelle had thought.

“You don't agree?” Michelle asked. “With what he's saying?”

“Well, there's some of truth to it, of course,” Caitlin said quickly. “It's just that
. . .
I've heard it so many times before.” A slight hesitation. “Let's just say I think he oversimplifies. And frankly?” She leaned in closer. “He's such an asshole.”

Michelle couldn't entirely repress a snort.

“Now how about that wine? Just a half a glass. I promise.” Caitlin grinned. “And you can drag me to another yoga class in the morning.”

“You don't want to go to jail?” Another podium slap. “Don't break the law. It's that simple.”

“Well, let's get this
over with.” Caitlin pushed her Swiss Black Forest cake aside, braced her hands on the edge of the table and stood. She hadn't been announced yet, but it was time for her to take her position by the podium for her introduction. Perry Aisles, the bundler who was the official “host” of the event, had already risen from his seat, and he was the one introducing Caitlin.

Was she okay? Michelle wasn't sure. She had that frail, faded look that Michelle had seen before.

Michelle stood too. “I'll walk you up.”

“Oh, you don't need to come,” Caitlin said, with her usual wave. “Sit down and enjoy your dessert.”

“I don't really eat dessert.”

Caitlin laughed. “Of course you don't.”

“It's better if I come with you. I might need to, to take notes.”

Her stomach was in knots, and she wasn't sure why.

Nothing was going to happen here, was it?

Caitlin laid a hand on Michelle's arm. “You're sweet. Come if you'd like, but I'll be fine.”

“I can't even begin
to express how much I admire this woman
. . .
”

Aisles was a TV producer who had made his bones on police procedurals dealing with serial killers. Sixty-ish, close-cropped hair, thin and as tanned as leather, looking like an aging surfer in a designer suit.

“
. . .
whose bravery, courage and commitment is why we're all here tonight.”

Wasn't that redundant? Michelle thought.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Caitlin O'Connor.”

Caitlin looked so small
up on the podium.

People applauded. She glanced at them briefly and smiled. Took a moment to adjust the microphone. Then picked up a couple pages of notes and appeared to study them.

She put the notes on the lectern and looked up.

“I'm going to keep this short. I know y'all support what we're doing. You're here, aren't you? And I so deeply appreciate that.”

She wasn't looking at the audience. She seemed to look past them, somewhere just behind them and above their heads.

“Lately I've spent a lot of time thinking about what a Safer America really means. What it might look like. And I can't really see it quite clearly yet.”

Now her head tilted down. Focused. First on a table in the front. Then on one next to it, and one behind.

“But what I want y'all to know is, I'm going to keep looking.
We're
going to keep looking.”

It was a neat trick, Michelle thought. Caitlin really
was
good at this. You could feel the connection she was making, the way she drew people in.

“We're committed to finding real solutions to America's problems. We're not going to be hemmed in by any partisan straightjackets. We're going to look for answers everywhere, regardless of party, regardless of ideology.”

Funny, Michelle thought. You couldn't stop watching her. She was mostly so still, awash in all that cream and beige, and it was as if every small gesture she made had some special significance.

“Y'all have seen what we've managed to accomplish so far. So I'm asking you to have a little faith. I promise you that every dollar you contribute is going to be spent carefully and thoughtfully.”

Now Caitlin smiled. Tilted her head and her eyes up. There was something private about the smile. Something that made you want to weep.

“There's no such thing as absolute safety. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that.”

She looked at the audience again. “But we can do better. We
must
do better. For our communities. For our kids. For the America they will inherit. If you feel the same way I do, help us get there. Help us build the America of our dreams. It can be done. And it
will
be done. If all of us, together, are willing to work for it.”

She bowed her head.

“Thank you.”

“See?” Caitlin said, grinning,
as Michelle walked her back to their table. “I told you I know how to do this shit.”

Chapter Fifteen

Danny's hearing was today.

She forgot about that for a while, during yoga. That was one of the reasons she liked yoga, because she could get out of her own head. “Breathe. Breathe.” And sweat. Take her body to the edge and then pull back. And this was yoga on the beach, just Michelle, Caitlin and their instructor, feet in the sand, waves pounding in front of them, seagulls and pelicans wheeling in the late morning sky.

She was fine as long as she was moving.

But as soon as they lay down on the packed sand for Corpse Pose at the end of the session, the point where you were supposed to completely relax, sink into the earth and feel nothing, the thought snaked back.

Danny's hearing was in an hour.

Why am I even worrying about it? she thought. Derek could produce letters from half of Humboldt County saying what a great guy Danny was, how much he'd contributed to the community, it wasn't going to make any difference.

They weren't going to let him out.

“That was really fun,” Caitlin said, as they scuffed up the beach to the bike path.

“I'm glad you liked it,” Michelle said.

“I did. I mean, you know, I used to work out. Do Zumba.” She snorted, like the whole notion was too absurd to contemplate. “I need to get back in the habit of doing this kind of thing.”

The reasons she'd stopped, the great fracture in her life, seemed to yawn in the air between them.

“Is there anything in particular you'd like to do today? Anything
. . .
anything I can do?”

“I don't know. Find us a place for lunch, I guess.”

They paused at the bike path, waiting for a pair of roller-bladers and a family on rented beach cruisers to pass by.

“Oh, and why don't you see if you can get a hold of that man from, what was it, PCA? The one we met last night.”

“Troy Stone?”

“Yeah. Might as well see if he's available. Since he wanted to meet with me.”

Caitlin said this casually, but Michelle had a feeling she'd been giving the matter some thought.

Why would Caitlin want to meet with Troy Stone? Was she really interested in what he had to say, when they'd “been playing opposite ends of the field”? By that Michelle figured he was a supporter of the two propositions on the ballot here, to legalize pot and reduce prison sentences for non-violent crimes. The propositions Safer America was raising money to defeat.

We're going to look for answers everywhere,
Caitlin had said last night.

Michelle hadn't thought she'd
meant
it.

After seeing the way Caitlin had performed, seeing Caitlin's acknowledgment after her speech that it had in fact been a performance
. . .

What did Caitlin really want? Who was she, underneath the performance, underneath the role of tragic victim?

You can't trust her, Michelle told herself. For all you know, she might be part of Gary's game.

“Well, it's not good
news.”

“I didn't expect any.”

Why lie?

“Emily, this is far from over,” Derek said.

“Just tell me what happened.”

She'd slipped outside the hotel and powered up her Emily phone while Caitlin was finishing up a spa treatment before their lunch. Walked to where the sand was deep and powdered and checked for a signal—cell service had always been spotty around here.

Hardly anyone hung out on this middle part of the beach. Most people went down closer to the water, where the sand was packed, or stayed on the boardwalk.

“They denied bail.”

“You were expecting something different?”

“To be honest? No. For whatever reason they've really got a hard-on for Jeff. The judge might as well be taking dictation from the prosecution.”

She could feel the rage and panic rising up from her gut, taste the acid bile in her throat. She wanted to scream.

Instead she said, “So. Tell me. How is this ‘far from over'?”

“Well, there's no trial date yet. They say they need more time to prepare their case.”

“And that's good?”

“For us, yes. If they hadn't delayed, I'd be doing it myself.”

“Why?”

A moment of silence. Michelle stared at the shoreline.

Was that a dolphin, surfing in the waves? She'd have to get closer to be sure.

“I don't think they want this to go to trial,” Derek finally said. “I think they want to make a deal. They're making things rough on Jeff, threatening a long sentence, denying bail, to increase the pressure so he'll take it.”

A deal? Was that even possible, with Gary pulling the strings?

“What kind of deal?”

“Well, there's no way to be sure. No one's put anything on the table, yet. But typically, they'll want any information Jeff could provide on the other players involved here. If they can roll up a couple of bigger fish, that might be enough for Jeff to walk. Or at least get a lesser sentence.”

How does this make sense? Michelle wanted to ask. There was no way Gary was going to let Danny go if he informed on Bobby and whoever it was who'd bought his cargo. Those people weren't worth anything. Not to Gary.

And the last thing that Gary would want was for Danny to really start talking. About what he knew. About the things he'd done.

She tried to think it through.

Maybe Gary could set Danny up. But maybe he couldn't control what happened after that. Maybe the prosecutors were honest actors, in their own way. Maybe they'd be willing to cut some kind of deal.

She wanted to believe that. But she really didn't.

“You know Jeff,” she said. “Not that I think he did anything wrong, but
. . .
he really values loyalty. So
. . .
this whole idea that he'd, well, betray other people, if he had any knowledge like that
. . .
”

“I do know,” Derek said. “But I'm telling you, it may be our best option. And I might need you to convince Jeff of that.”

Like she had that power. When had Danny ever listened to her?

“Because look, Emily, realistically
. . .
you're one of the points where they can apply pressure. It's only a matter of time before they do.”

“I'll talk to him,” she said.

Troy Stone was available
to meet later that afternoon.

“I'm in Venice,” he'd said. “So easy for you to get to. How about Hal's on Abbot Kinney? They have valet parking.”

“Do you think
. . .
is it safe for us to walk down?” Caitlin asked.

The question took Michelle by surprise. “Sure,” she said. “It's a nice walk. People come here from all over the world.”

“I hate arriving places all in a sweat. But it's not too hot. And the breeze is nice. I just thought
. . .
” Caitlin hesitated. Her cheeks reddened. “I need to start getting out more. And it's a pretty day.”

So they walked. It
was
a pretty day. Most of them were, here. One thing Michelle supposed she missed. The sky was that slightly desiccated blue, with high, wispy clouds; you could follow the quiet roar of the low waves as they rolled across the long, flat beach, heading up the coast, like some kind of stereo demonstration. Her parents had an old vinyl LP like that, with airplane and train sounds. She and Maggie played it incessantly when they were little kids.

The Venice boardwalk hadn't changed much. The same T-shirt and sunglasses stores, a poster shop, a lot of food stands and restaurants—a couple of which did seem more upmarket than what had been here a few years ago—interspersed with newer condos that looked like concrete bunkers had mated with aquariums. On the beach side, vendors sold crafts, incense, political bumper stickers and buttons and 9/11 Truther literature. There were tarot readers, a freak show, performers, some playing music, others juggling chainsaws, and that guy who wore a turban and roller blades and played an electric guitar, singing about a man from Mars. He'd been in so many TV shows and commercials that he had to be living pretty well off his residuals by now, Michelle thought. The crowd was the usual mix of tourists and locals, people riding beach cruisers and skateboards, street kids begging for change, would-be gangsters walking their pit bulls. A homeless man worked on a cartoonish sand sculpture of a mermaid with huge breasts, the magic marker scrawl on a piece of cardboard requesting no photos without a donation. Another man with a boa constrictor wrapped around his neck pedaled past on a unicycle.

“Oh, would you look at that!” Caitlin said, with an exasperated chuckle.

Michelle looked to where she pointed.

Medical Marijuana Evaluation,
the sign said. Also,
Botox by the Beach
.

“Nice to know you can get everything you need in one place,” Caitlin said, rolling her eyes.

They passed another cannabis clinic, this one a smaller fluorescent-green storefront, tucked between a tattoo parlor and a shop that sold “tobacco water pipes and smoking accessories.” Two women barely out of their teens wearing bikini tops, cut-off shorts and leis made of fake marijuana leaves stood out in front. “Get legal!” they called out. “Free evaluation!” The customers waiting inside looked mostly young, scruffy and stoned, some holding skateboards and grimy backpacks.

“I'm sure there's all kinds of legitimate medical needs going on there,” Caitlin muttered.

“I think we go this way,” Michelle said. This was not a subject she wanted to talk about.

Abbot Kinney had gentrified
a lot in her last few years in Los Angeles, but walking down the street now, Michelle could see it had gone even more upscale during her time away. Expensive boutiques, designer-furniture stores and foodie restaurants filled the mostly low, vintage brick and California Spanish stucco buildings, with the occasional modernist cube thrown in. New faux lofts had sprung up behind the main street in places.

When Michelle was younger, Venice had been bohemian, cheap and somewhat dangerous. It looked like none of those things now.

Michelle watched Caitlin as she paused to look at a purse in a display window. “Now that is cute,” she was saying. Like they were two girlfriends out for an afternoon of shopping and cocktails.

There was danger here, all right, but not from gangbangers or meth heads. The danger came from very high places, likely from Caitlin's own inner circle, and it was following them both, Michelle knew.

And Caitlin had no idea.

At least, Michelle didn't think she did.

x
x
x

“Thank you for agreeing
to see me.” Troy Stone rose, and offered his hand. He'd secured a booth on the bar side of Hal's restaurant.

Hal's was a neighborhood fixture and Industry hangout, even back in the days when Abbot Kinney had been on the border of a gang war. Michelle had always liked the place. Dark granite floors, white walls with rotating art, a high ceiling, and acoustics that during the day actually allowed for conversation. A good choice for a meeting.

“My pleasure, Mr. Stone,” Caitlin said, taking his hand briefly. Her guarded look was back, the politeness held at a distance.

“Troy, please.”

Today he wore a Lacoste mustard polo shirt and khaki chinos. The polo showed his broad chest, the sleeves cutting across his biceps. If he hadn't been an athlete, he looked like one, a recently retired jock who still hit the gym to keep his gut in check.

Caitlin and Michelle sat down across from him.

“What can I get you ladies to drink?”

Caitlin wanted chardonnay, of course. Troy opted for beer. Michelle stuck with Pellegrino. “She's trying to be a good influence on me,” Caitlin said with a grin, that flirtatiousness typical of her returning for a moment. “I'm not sure it's taking, though.”

Troy chuckled. “In wine there is wisdom. In beer, there is strength. In water? There's bacteria. I don't know if that's true, but I saw it on a T-shirt once.”

They both have their charming masks on, Michelle thought.

“Have you lived in Venice long?” she asked.

He leaned back and sipped his beer. A Red Stripe. “You might say that. I'm in my grandparent's old house, a few blocks from here. We were able to keep it in the family, when they passed.”

“Oakwood? Michelle asked.

He held himself still for a moment.

Was he insulted? Maybe it was another assumption she shouldn't have made.

“Yes,” he said. “You're familiar with the history here, I take it.”

“I lived in LA for a long time.”