Wendy Hornsby - Telling Lies

“Fuck off, Lucas,” Rod said. He poured himself a stiff drink and drained it. “You always think you’re so damned funny. Let’s show a little respect here. Or didn’t it sink in what Maggie just said? Emily was shot.”

Lucas was puffing up for a retort, but Flint raised a hand and cut him short.

“Hang on,” Flint said. He reached over and turned up the volume on the television.

On the screen, we saw the videotaped image of Inez Sanchez standing in front of French Hospital. There was some residual grousing between Lucas and Rod, so we missed part of her set-up speech. But Flint and I had heard it before:

“Dr. Emily Duchamps, one of our nation’s leading figures in health care for the poor, was found earlier this evening, gravely wounded by an unknown assailant.”

The camera pulled back, brought Flint and me into the frame. I did my short bit, Flint did his, then the screen faded to a piece of file footage from the late sixties: the front of the Federal Courthouse in San Francisco, zoom on a cheering group on the steps, all of them with raised fist salutes-Emily, Rod, Lucas, Emily’s ex husband, Jaime Orozco, the late Arthur Fulham Dodds, Celeste Baldwin. And Aleda Weston.

The magic of television took us back to Inez, live now, at the Los Angeles airport. She wore the same coat, new makeup. She was standing on the sidewalk outside a terminal building, waiting for Aleda and her federal marshal escort to come out.

Inez was out of the rain, but the traffic around her was relentless. The effect was something like broadcasting from a freeway shoulder. Passing buses and vans regularly overpowered the sound transmission and blew her hair across her face, lifted her coattails.

Standing with Inez was Mrs. Tom Potts, Senior. I remembered her from the trial and all the press coverage. She was the mother of the graduate student who had been immolated in a lab fire during a Berkeley demonstration in 1969. He was the manslaughter on the indictment against Emily and her colleagues, the heart of the fire that had provided the backdrop for Emily’s Time cover.

To my best recollection, Mrs. Potts was a schoolteacher, and Mr. Potts was some sort of civil servant. They were a family with more hope than money to invest. And young Tom Potts was the sum of their investment.

Mrs. Potts ignored Inez’s questions to deliver her own message.

“I have waited the equivalent in years of my son’s lifetime for his killers to be brought to justice,” Mrs. Potts said. “I hear that Aleda Weston has been very ill. Maybe that’s why she’s come out of hiding. I’m here to make sure that some high-priced lawyer doesn’t convince the people of this country that the twenty-two years she spent as a fugitive from justice can in some way equate to time spent in prison. Even if she was shut off from the company of her family, at least she was alive. Because of her actions, my son was not so fortunate.”

She took a breath. “I offer my condolences to the parents of Dr. Duchamps. They also lost a son. But for the doctor herself, I am only sorry that she cannot feel pain the way my Tom did. The eternal fires of hell are nothing compared to what he suffered in that burning laboratory. My consolation is that Dr. Duchamps is about to find out for herself what the fires of hell are.”

Her bitterness stunned me. Such hatred must have needed constant tending to keep it fresh for so many years. I looked over at Flint to check his reaction. I was thinking we had watched suspect number one spill her guts. Flint wouldn’t look at me. He sat on the edge of the table with his arms folded across his chest, his face perfectly passive. Even when we caught our first glimpse of Aleda, he didn’t change his expression.

Lucas gasped. “Dear God.” He began to weep softly.

The lighting was spotty, but I saw Aleda’s face clearly. She seemed much older than her forty-four or forty-five years. She was excruciatingly thin, stooped as with gross fatigue. The flashing cameras and the jostling press seemed to confuse her. My heart ached for her. Mercifully, her escort hustled her into a waiting car and swiftly drove her away.

Max turned off the set. “Lucas, what did you say earlier? Deja vu? I look around this room, I see those faces on the tube, and hell, it’s December 1969 again.”

“There are a few faces missing,” I said. “Is this all Emily had in mind? A reunion, with a surprise guest? Who would it be, Max?”

Max shrugged. I don’t know.”

“But you must have some ideas,” I said.

I know this will sound crazy,” he shrugged. “But Emily has been behaving so strangely.”

“Strange how?” I asked.

“Happy. Think about it. Emily happy in December.”

“So?”

“So.” Max reached out and touched my cheek and looked deep into my eyes. His own eyes welled with tears. I can’t explain it, but I’ve had this weird feeling all day, Maggot, that Emily was going to bring Marc.”

Flint and I were alonein the hall outside Max’s room,;waiting for a down elevator. My head buzzed from too much coffee, too much talk, not enough good answers. It was late, and though I felt frayed, my mind was still racing.

Flint was awfully quiet.

“What do you think?” I asked him.

“About that mob?” He had a wry smile. “Bunch of commies.”

“Actually, one reconstructed Trotskyite, an Episcopalian, and a Harvard man.”

“You know what I mean.”

I laughed. “Good bet none of them voted for Bush.”

He was thinking about it as we got into the elevator. “Your uncle went to Harvard?”

“For law school only.”

“Maybe that explains it.”

“What?”

“He’s either nuts, or drunk. Or both.”

“Uncle Max?” I said. “I don’t think so.”

“What he said about expecting your brother to show up. Twenty-two years after his funeral. You don’t find that strange?”

“Sure,” I said. “But on a one to ten scale of strange things I’ve encountered only today, with rain in L.A. measuring one and the shooting of Emily hitting ten, I think the notion that Marc could be alive only rates a six, maybe a seven.”

“You don’t mean that,” he said.

We stepped out of the elevator and into the lobby.

“It’s the date, Flint. Max has been thinking about Marc. He feels him close by. I feel him, too, almost like being haunted. Though there’s more to it than heavy remembrance.” I looked over at him. “Something is up. Some bit of old, unfinished business wants to be taken care of.”

He frowned. “This unfinished business has Max scared?”

“Not scared as much as frustrated. Unfinished business can be like coitus interruptus,” I said. “You know how that sets you on edge, don’t you, Flint?”

“The things that come out of your mouth…”

I have long legs, a family trait, and I was stretching them to get through the cavelike lobby and out the door. Flint had no trouble keeping up. When we were outside, in the rain again, I turned to him.

“Get me in to see Aleda Weston,” I said.

“I’ll try. I’ll make some calls in the morning.”

“Tonight, Flint. I want to talk to Aleda tonight.”

“Jesus, lady. Aren’t you worn out? I’ll buy you a drink, take you back to Emily’s apartment. You get some sleep. In the morning, when normal channels are open, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Never mind,” I said. We stood on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, rain pelting the awning over our heads. The only way I can describe how I felt is itchy, itchy inside somewhere I couldn’t quite reach. But I had to keep trying.

I looked sideways at Flint. “Tell me where they’re taking Aleda tonight and I’ll handle things myself.”