John Lescroart - A Certain Justice

God knew, Loretta had made enough compromises in her life, but the one constant had always been preserving Elaine's – what was the word? – innocence? Idealism?

Loretta had lost hers long ago, maybe even before her four days in the Colombian jungle, thinking she was going to spend eternity there, clutching a suitcase full of the dollars that the Colombian businessman on the plane had carried aboard as hand baggage, contemplating the money's uselessness to her, living day and night with the lizards and bugs and decomposing bodies of five dead men. Now she was a pragmatist, what counted was what worked. She was a woman of stature and accomplishment, but the idealist she had once been – back, say, when she had been with Abe Glitsky in college – that person was gone forever. And God, how she missed her! How she wished she could return! But, of course, that was life, wasn't it? The taking of one road that foreclosed the possibility of taking any of the others…

Well, now that part of it might not happen to Elaine. At least not because of Christopher Locke. It was a shame that it had to happen, but it wasn't the end of the world – her daughter would get over it.

She wished she felt worse about Locke, a powerful black leader cut down in his prime. But on the other hand, he had lived his allotted time and his death was going to save her daughter from a terrible trauma, whether she realized it now or not.

At first she thought Mohandas was expending useless energy on the Jerohm Reese matter, but on reflection realized that her daughter had unknowingly delivered a trump to their hands, and Mohandas was holding it. The problem was that Loretta wasn't sure Mohandas knew how to play it for the best effect. So she was going to do it for him and then tell him what she had done. And in exchange for…

Well, there was always that – Philip would have to be made to see that he'd have to deliver, too. Nothing was for free.

The passage of the increased reward on Shea was a sign that things were going her way. Once the river of appeasement started flowing, it tended to take on a life of its own. Even better was the fact that the mayor had come to focus on Philip Mohandas as the symbol of the outraged black community. It was a reaction she had helped engineer; she was playing Philip in her own game of chess.

But she had to remind herself not to underestimate the man – he was no mere pawn. In calmer times she knew that Mohandas managed to retain only a small following in the voting community. But when flare-ups occurred, when the general perception got to be that the essence of American black life itself was under threat from the white majority, even moderate blacks – her constituents – flocked to him in large numbers, significant numbers.

The blinds were drawn throughout the house. Dressed in a black woolen outfit suitable for mourning, Loretta sat at a cherry secretary in her small office at the back, looking out and down to the Presidio, the decommissioned army base that had recently been converted to a national park.

The last place of decommissioned and deserted prime real estate in San Francisco was the Hunter's Point Naval Reservation, and, waiting for Abe Glitsky's arrival, Loretta was putting in more phone time to Washington. Her idea had been percolating for months, and she had been patiently waiting for the time to set it in motion. And now that time had come. Whatever the outcome of this crisis, she was confident that her plan would deliver her nearly every African-American vote in the Bay Area.

He arrived in another unmarked Plymouth, parking in the circular driveway by the front door. Nervous, he had called fifteen minutes before from downtown, and she had been waiting for him, watching his car pull up, then the man himself get out, stretch his back, catch her looking in the window and break a small knowing smile.

'The last thing I want to do is argue with you.'

Somehow, an hour had passed.

Glitsky, dressed again, sat with her at her breakfast nook, drinking a mug of Constant Comment tea with extra lemon. There was an island separating the nook from the kitchen, and, her bare feet swinging slightly, Loretta sat up on it, wearing her dark skirt and blouse.

'Disagreeing isn't arguing.'

'Come visit the Senate sometime. The two are kissin' cousins, sometimes twins.'

'Not now.'

'All right, not now.' She slipped off the island, pulled a chair up next to him. 'But right at this minute I don't even want to disagree, okay?'

She was right there, next to him, and he was surprised that she seemed almost timid, afraid to touch him now that the fires had been banked for a while. To some degree, he found himself relieved about it. He couldn't say why, but a casual touch from her – right at this moment – would have struck him as inappropriate, something she might do with almost anyone to drive home a point. He didn't want her to use that trick. Or any other trick.

But, this close, he had to touch her. He reached a hand out and rested it on her forearm. 'My agenda is different than yours, Loretta, that's all I'm saying. Your job is politics. Mine is homicide. I want to find who killed Arthur Wade.'

She spoke quietly. 'We know who did that, Abe. We've got a picture of it.'

'I'm not denying Kevin Shea-'

"Then you've got to get comfortable with us using him…'

'But we know for a fact that there were others, we don't know if Shea was the leader of anything, what he was doing there at all.'

'I think it's clear he was doing enough.'

Glitsky was silent.

'Abe, listen. Doesn't this make sense if you think about it? Forget police procedures. You've said my job is politics, and this is political. It's trying to get to some consensus, get people thinking some solution – it almost doesn't matter which one – is going to work . To stop this thing before it destroys the whole city, maybe the country.'

Glitsky swallowed some tea. 'And you honestly think arresting Kevin Shea…?'

'I think as a symbol , that could end it, yes.'

Glitsky searched her eyes and discovered something he recognized as crucial – at least Loretta believed it.

'So what about Jerohm?'

Loretta sighed. 'That might be a blessing in disguise if we can get the right spin on it.'

Glitsky, a thin humor. 'I don't know from spin.'

'Jerohm appeases the angry whites, Kevin appeases our angry brothers and sisters.'

'Half-brothers and sisters,' Glitsky corrected her, 'if you want to get technical.'

Loretta took that in. 'One drop of blood,' she said.

'What's that?'

'That's the law of our land, Abe. If you've got one drop of black blood, you're black.'

'If you say so…' But he didn't want to fight, he didn't want to have a discussion . He was moving his hand up and down her arm, and she leaned her head down and kissed it. 'You know,' he said, 'it may be different with the people you deal with, but I don't think about my color all the time, about where we're going as a people … it's more everybody, the world…'

'Going down the tubes together?'

'Fast enough. And choosing up sides over who we're gonna hate doesn't seem to be making it any better.'

'Why, Abe Glitsky, you're still an idealist, aren't you, in that heart of yours?' He had to laugh… he considered himself the greatest skeptic he knew. She moved up, closer to him. 'Maybe it'll get better.'

'Does it seem like it's getting better?' he asked.

'On any given day, maybe not. Today, certainly not. But sometimes… sometimes… I mean, somebody like me, twenty years ago a black woman was not a U.S. senator. I've got to think that in the long view things have changed for the better. It must mean something.'

'It might mean that people believe you, Loretta. It might be just you, who you are, what you give people.'