Wendy Hornsby - Bad Intent

If money is the mother’s milk of politics, then press coverage is surely the hand that rocks the cradle. I pulled out my press credentials as I led Casey over to my pigeon.

I think Casey liked his looks. She held herself tall, flipped her long hair over her shoulders.

“Maggie MacGowen,” I said, holding out my press card to him. “My intern, Casey.”

He brightened, took down his feet, swept the sushi into a desk drawer. Then he offered his hand to both of us in turn, giving Casey more turn than me. “Schuyler Smith. How can I help you?”

“I’m interested in your volunteers,” I said.

“Media relations handles all interviews. If you’ll leave your card…”

“Sure.” I smiled, propped my hip against his desk. “All I’m doing at this point is deep background for a nonpartisan piece to run as filler on election night after all the rhetoric has been canned. ‘Volunteers: Who Are They?’-something like that. Marovich is an old-time pol. I thought there might be some personalities to mine here.”

Smith surveyed the mixed bag populating the room, smiling at some retort he was keeping private. What he said was, “The district attorney depends on citizens dedicated to his platform of a quality judicial system, of fairness…”

“Are you a volunteer?” I asked. “Or paid staff?”

“Full-time volunteer.”

He must have read something into the glance I gave his Guccis, because he felt a need to explain further. “I feel so strongly about Mr. Marovich’s candidacy that I took a six-month leave from my job.”

“Paid or unpaid leave?” Already a familiar refrain.

He frowned. “You really should talk to media relations.”

I made a little bow as an apology. “For background only. I’m curious, of course. A campaign on this scale takes a lot of bright-young-man hours.” I glanced at Casey. “And bright-young-woman hours. The time represents quite a financial sacrifice. Your employer would risk violating election laws if he kept you on the payroll, risks his own productivity if he leaves your job open for you. I was merely wondering how you keep yourself in sushi and why you would put a career on hold and how you got your employer to go along.”

He was eyeing my daughter, holding in his little gut for her benefit. “I’m fortunate to work for a firm with a social conscience. They feel that any sacrifice now is an investment in the future. Contacts made, friendships solidified.”

“They pick your candidate?”

“Of course not.” Still smiling.

“Who do you work for?” I asked. The law firm he mentioned was only too familiar. Jennifer Miller hung her credentials on the wall there. Baron Marovich was an alumnus.

Casey had wandered off to leaf through a stack of posters. Smith watched her. I was tempted to snatch him bald for his thoughts. Not so long ago, I… I believe the first sign of impending middle age is becoming invisible to men under thirty. I wasn’t invisible yet, but I felt I was fading.

“George Schwartz,” I said to get Smith’s attention. “Excuse me?”

“I understand George Schwartz has left his position with the district attorney’s office to work for the campaign. Do you know him?”

“I know who he is. George works under the aegis of the executive staff. I don’t see much of him.”

“What does he do for the executive staff?”

“Leg work. I’m not sure.”

“Know how I can reach him?”

“You might leave a message through Roddy O’Leary. Or call media relations.”

“I’ll do that,” I said. “Mind if we speak with some of your volunteers?”

“Media relations will be in at nine tomorrow. You’ll have to ask them.” He was smooth, never let the friendly mien drop. I left him my card. Casey and I walked back out into the noise of city traffic, heads together, trying not to burst out laughing at the smooth of Mr. Schuyler Smith.

We had filled in some blanks, learned a few questions to ask. It was time well spent.

Casey was in no mood to waste the last night without homework at home. She came with me to my office in Burbank to help me get settled in. Sounds boring, but we were having fun, cataloguing video tapes before shelving them, taking turns with the TV, fifteen minutes of Satellite Network News, then fifteen minutes of MTV, with a few seconds of token groaning to serve as segue between sets.

We were five minutes into my turn when Ralph Faust came on with a breaking news report. I leaned forward from my seat on the office rug to hear every word. Casey was making labels and never looked up at the TV.

Demonstrators keeping candlelight vigil at Parker Center, police headquarters, have been for the most part orderly. Earlier some bottles were reportedly thrown at the front of the building after the Reverend Jimmy Lee Cook, in addressing the crowd – estimated to be between two and three hundred – suggested that if Charles Conklin were not freed immediately that it might be time to go back to the streets to give a message to the LAPD.

At a separate news conference in his office, District Attorney Marovich called for an investigation into the records of Detectives Mike Flint and Jerry Kelsey, identified as the chief investigating officers assigned to the Wyatt Johnson shooting. A recent survey by the police department identified the forty officers with the worst records of abuse and civilian complaints. Neither Flint nor Kelsey appears on the list.

Casey’s head snapped up. “What did he say about Mike?”

“Junk,” I said. I punched up MTV.

Casey gave me a quick, wise appraisal. “Why did you change the channel? They’re talking about Mike.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” I said.

“Oh, right,” she said, reaching for the remote. “You mean, you don’t want me to hear it.”

SNN came back on the screen, running taped footage of the earlier interview Ralph had done with Marovich, Miller, and Burgess. Casey sat rapt this time, listening.

When the Reverend Burgess said, again, that Mike scared false testimony from two child witnesses, Casey threw down her pen in disgust. “The fat guy said Mike threatened someone.”

“Casey, those people will say anything to get their names on the news. Look at them. You have a reporter desperate to keep his ratings, a politician running for office, an attorney looking for her thirty-percent cut of a potentially huge civil suit, and a pseudo-reverend sitting there with the address where you can send donations scrolling across his chest. Who do you trust, them, or Mike?”

“Don’t get mad,” she said. “It’s like Mike always says, ‘Who you gonna believe? Me, or your own lyin’ eyes?’ “

“You little wiseacre.” I gave her a gentle shove and made a grab for the remote, but her arms are longer than mine. She held it beyond my grasp so I couldn’t change from the news.

Burgess still dominated the spot. Mr. Marovich listened to us, understood the implications of our findings right away. He has such confidence that the original investigation was tainted that he persuaded one of the city’s big-dollar law firms to represent Charles Conklin on a pro bono basis. Without charging a retainer, Jennifer Miller will lead the defense.

I crawled over and switched off the television. “Listen up,” I said. “And be warned. If the D.A. succeeds in blowing this into a bigger issue, there will be press everywhere looking for juicy bits. If anyone comes near you, you keep your mouth shut and run.”

I knew she had a sassy retort brewing, but the telephone rang and interrupted her.

“Another thing,” I said, scrambling for the phone. “Don’t give out anything on the phone.”

I said, “Hello.”

Bad news travels fast, especially when it travels by satellite. I had picked up the receiver with a sense of dread. I expected to hear on the other end an obscene caller, a local news person looking for fresh dirt, a concerned but nosy friend. What I got was my ex. And he was in high dudgeon.