I called Norm O’Hare and got his voicemail. I left him a message to tell the Reno PD they had another arrest to make. I hoped they would get to the tent in time.
I scanned the crowd looking for a pale girl in a wheelchair. But no luck. I was sure I would find her there because she had been so determined to hear Boerum. My apprehension returned.
I let go of Manny’s protective arm and moved to a quieter area on the lawn near the tent to call Norm again. This time he answered.
“Rosie wasn’t in her apartment,” he said, “and now we’re looking around the student newsroom. One disturbing development. There’s an email addressed to her open on the computer here.”
“What does it say?”
“‘Mind your own business. Next time I won’t miss.’”
“Did she see it?”
“I guess so, because her reply suggested the sender have sex with himself.”
“Oh, God. Norm, I think Rosie’s heading here. She was absolutely determined to hear Boerum’s speech the last time I talked to her.”
“Well, we’ve searched these offices and she’s gone. So I’ll see you at the speech.”
“I’m just scared whoever attacked her in her apartment is going to be here tonight to finish the job. It’s possible it’s Big Al Boerum, and I just saw him at the tent. Rosie won’t be in a protected hospital room. She’ll be out in the open.”
“Stay calm, Red. I’m on my way.”
I turned back toward the tent, and there she was, coming down the path. The boy pushing her wheelchair had ditched his fake police uniform and was dressed in a sweater and khakis. Rosie was keeping warm in a fleece jacket and a plaid blanket over her legs. Her cheeks were pink but the rest of her looked pale and thin.
I approached them. “You damned idiot. Don’t you realize the man who shot you is probably here in the crowd?”
For that I got a bittersweet smile. “Probably. And if I spot him, I’ll identify him to the security guards.”
A burst of air came out of my mouth. “You told the police he wore a mask.”
“He did. But I’m good at analyzing body language and I’m looking around for him.” She adjusted her blanket pulling it up to her chest. “Besides, no one’s going to attack me in front of all these people. Honestly, Red, I need to see Danica Boerum in person. I need to be sure.”
“Then I’m sticking with you and your co-conspirator here. Norm is on his way with that young cop who’s in love with you.”
The boy behind the chair frowned and maneuvered the chair into the sitting area and aligned it with the last row of seats.
“This isn’t close enough,” said Rosie, twisting her head toward him. “I need to be up front.”
“Great. Right where the assholes can see you plain as day,” he said.
“Actually, she might be safer up front,” I said. “A lot of campus security will be up near the stage. And I have a seat saved at the end of the first row.”
Reluctantly, the boy wheeled Rosie up to the front. Alexandra waved at me and pointed to the empty seat at the end with my name on a small white card. Her eyes fell on Rosie and widened. Then she turned away and resumed her conversation with a blond boy dressed in a suit and tie.
The Purists had blocked off half of the first row and labeled seats for university administrators. I saw Manny’s name next to mine and was comforted with the thought of his beefy presence next to me. The next three rows were cordoned off with red, white and blue ribbons to indicate where the faithful would sit. Behind these, twenty rows were open to the audience who had started to file in.
Rosie’s companion locked her chair at the end of the row next to me. Looking around for Norm, I recognized several of Joe’s team in plainclothes scattered among the crowd standing at the sidelines. I also recognized several of the student leaders I had met with earlier. They and their friends were sitting, hands folded in their laps. One saw me and drew her fingers across her lips to indicate they were zipped shut. Good. I prayed the strategy of silence might work to prevent trouble.
At exactly eight thirty, the blond boy in the suit walked up on the stage and stood in front of the microphone. He snapped his fingers. “This is how we applaud,” he said, snapping them again.
The sound of snapping fingers started offstage where the tent roof met the Purist house. The Purists marched out of the house by a side door in single file, snapping their fingers in rhythm. The men wore navy blazers with white shirts and red ties. The women wore long navy skirts with high neck white blouses and red sashes. They paraded single file in lock step like soldiers, marching in front of the stage and then into the specially marked rows of seats.
Backs straight, eyes forward, not a murmur from anyone, they reminded me of a religious cult I had once covered as a reporter.
The blond boy took the microphone again to welcome the audience and introduce Danica Boerum: “one of our great political leaders, fighter for a purer America, defender of our Constitution.” He snapped his fingers and the Purists reacted, raising their arms and snapping in unison.
Danica Boerum came onto the stage, emerging from the darkness behind her. Her snow-white hair gleamed under the lights suspended from the tent roof. It was even shorter than her newspaper photos showed, cropped so closely she looked almost mannish with her striking nose and dark eyes. She was dressed in a long white gown with full sleeves and an American flag brooch pinned on her shoulder. She accepted the microphone from the blond boy, unhitched it from its stand and began to pace back and forth across the stage. She said nothing for a full fifteen seconds, then stopped, looked out over the crowd and smiled. Large teeth as white as her hair.
Most of us who were in the audience that night had trouble recalling exactly what Danica said at the beginning. There were no dramatic or sensational phrases, no uniquely quotable comments, although the attending press took copious notes. She employed the standard political calls for a stronger democracy, a return to American greatness, our exceptional history.
When she finally got to her principle call for sending immigrants back to their own countries, she spoke softly and with a smile, conceding the contributions foreigners had made but still insisting that this was not the place for them to call home. Her arguments for white rule were couched in short biographies about famous white men in American and northern European history. Men who mattered, she said, men who governed wisely.
She paused at times to permit someone to signal the Purists who obediently raised their arms and snapped.
To my surprise, the rest of the audience remained quiet. Truly quiet. No outbursts, no shouts from the sidelines. Clearly people had gotten the message about the strategy of silence and had passed it on.
After about twenty minutes, the strategy began to take a toll on the speaker. She raised her voice a notch and projected it past the Purist ranks to the general audience.
“If you don’t like snapping your fingers, feel free to applaud,” she said. Another smile. “Or boo if you prefer. I can handle criticism.”
Silence.
One of the Purist boys raised his hand. “Tell us again why it’s so important that the white race be the only ones who govern America.”
The smile disappeared. “Members of the other races are good people and have given us wonderful art and music. But their record of governance in their own home countries is disappointing. Their countries are consumed with corruption and violence. Clearly, they are weak as leaders of societies.”
Silence.
A Purist girl stood up. “And isn’t it true dark-skinned people are responsible for most of the crime in this country?”
Danica nodded. “Most of the violent crime.”
The Purists snapped their fingers.
My gag reflex went off. Jesus, I could see where this was going, but I didn’t know how to stop it. Obviously the Purists wanted a fight. A f
ist fight, a knife fight, anything that would get the TV cameras rolling.
Remarkably, the crowd remained silent. Manny took my hand and squeezed it.
Danica made one more try. Her voice rose: “America is our home. Our home. Not theirs. And we must do everything in our power to reclaim it for ourselves. We must defy those who question us and be rid of those who don’t belong here. By force if necessary.”
The Purists rose as one and raised their arms snapping their fingers. Danica put out her hands and signaled them to sit down. Her eyes flashed with anger. She addressed the crowd at the sidelines. “Surely, someone has a question.”
There was a slight stirring among the crowd, but no one spoke.
“I have a question.” The voice came from my left side.
Oh shit, I had forgotten to tell Rosie about the silence strategy. The girl had half risen from her wheelchair.
Danica’s eyes turned to Rosie.
Rosie’s voice was loud and firm. “Miss Boerum, how do you go from a job running whores in Los Angeles to being a spokeswoman for The American Purists?”
Danica’s face turned to stone. “I have no idea what you mean.”
Rosie shouted, “Oh yes you do. I remember you, Danica. I remember when you weren’t Danica. You were Mama D, pimping out twelve-year-olds. I know who you really are.” She collapsed back into her wheelchair.
Two bodies came at Rosie from different directions. One was Big Al, moving fast, his hand reaching for something inside his jacket. The other was Norm O’Hare, also moving fast, holding his badge out front.
The two men faced each other over the pale girl. “Get her out of here,” said Big Al through clenched teeth.
Norm grabbed the handles of Rosie’s chair, spun her around and headed for the exit.
Big Al turned and raced into the darkness behind the stage.
A rumbling sound came from behind me. It was the sound of chairs being moved as people stood. I turned. Members of the still-silent audience were holding up large placards. In bold ink, each carried a different message. “America is for all of us.” “Down with racism.” “Long live diversity.” “We are all brothers and sisters.” The entire audience was on its feet, still quiet but pumping the placards up and down. Someone started to sing, “Oh beautiful for spacious skies” in a strong tenor voice. Gradually the whole audience joined in. A trumpet played a riff from somewhere outside on the lawn. The voices grew louder as Manny and I edged back through the crowd still standing and singing. As we came to the lawn outside we could hear “and crown thy good with brotherhood,” now so loud I was sure they could hear it in San Francisco.
Manny leaned into my ear. “Your silent strategy may have worked, but I’m glad to see our students still found another way to express themselves.”
“I’m glad too.” I turned to the students filing out behind us and gave them two thumbs up.
I could still see the stage from the lawn. The blond boy had reached Danica’s side. She stood frozen, staring out into the singing crowd. The boy put his hand on her elbow. “Thank you all for coming,” he said into the mic, although I doubt anyone in the retreating audience heard. Then he guided the speaker off the stage.
Chapter 23
The singing stopped but the trumpet kept playing “America the Beautiful” somewhere in the night. Then we heard it joined by drums, followed by a sax and a tuba as it became clear that students from all over campus were marching past the Purist tent, many linking arms and some carrying placards. I glanced over at a group of Purists standing in front of their house. They stood dumb and confused. Alexandra Pickering’s tears streamed mascara down her cheeks.
Manny took my arm again. “Another great evening in paradise, don’t you think?”
I squeezed his arm. “You bet. I’m so proud of our students.”
“Gandhi would have been proud. The students figured out how to protest. Their decision to use music instead of fists and guns was genius,” he said. “Now tell me, what was that business with Rosie Jenkins all about? She accused Danica of running whores?”
“Rosie told me she thought she knew Danica Boerum from her past. I guess seeing her in person tonight made her certain.”
“Wow. That’s astonishing. Who’s the guy who wheeled her out of there?
“That’s Norm O’Hare, a Landry detective investigating the attack on Rosie. My guess is he’s taking her back to the hospital.”
The students were still marching but now singing and shouting to each other into the open air. Manny and I diverted to a smaller path where it was quieter. He was still shaking his head in disbelief. “If Rosie is right about Danica Boerum, the question she asked is pertinent. How does a woman go from sex trafficker to Purist promoter?”
“That’s a mystery yet to be solved. Right now my worry is for Rosie’s safety. The other man who headed for her is a known pimp and a vicious guy. I suspect he is also Boerum’s brother, given the physical resemblance. He should have been arrested earlier today but he escaped. I’ve already alerted Norm to this but I should call him again.”
Manny left me with a quick hug and moved back toward a cluster of students still marching and pumping their placards. I moved farther down the path to make the call, but Norm’s phone went to voicemail. I left a message and decided to get to the hospital as quickly as possible.
At the end of the path near the journalism parking lot, I encountered three male students. Two white students were holding the third, an African-American boy who was shaking with rage, his fists clenched.
“Are you okay?” I asked, looking at the boy in distress.
“I will be,” he said, eyes flashing. “You were right, Dean Solaris. I shouldn’t have gone to that speech. I wanted to shout out even though we had agreed to be silent. What I really wanted to do was jump up on that stage. More than anything, I wanted to kill that bitch.”
“Get in line,” said one of his companions. “C’mon, let’s get back to the house. You need a stiff drink and so do I.” He led the boy away.
The third student lingered behind. I recognized him as a former student of mine, now the head of the inter-fraternity council who attended Manny’s meeting. “I’m glad I came,” he said. It was then I noticed his eyes were watering. “I knew I was going to despise what Boerum said.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “But I didn’t know how much it would hurt.”
“Hate speech does hurt.”
“The black guy you just spoke to is one of my best friends. I’ve known him since grade school. We’re in the same fraternity. My parents are friends with his parents. But I don’t think until now I ever really understood what he’s had to put up with all his life.”
“You probably still don’t. Neither of us does.”
I started to walk toward my car but the boy stayed by my side. “It’s late, Dean Solaris. I’ll see you to your car.”
“Thank you. You said you were glad you came to the speech tonight. Why?”
He was breathing heavily. “You said in an ethics class I took from you that the opinion that contradicts our own is valuable, that we should listen to those we disagree with because it will refine our critical thinking.”
“And you think that’s what happened tonight?”
We had reached the car and I unlocked the door. The student put his hand on the top of the door and looked at me. His eyes were clear now.
“I know it did. I realized tonight that I’ve been too casual about racism and too indifferent to politics in this country. I always figured that was crap for other people to worry about. I haven’t even registered to vote yet. But now I will, because after listening to that woman and the bigotry of those Purist bastards, I know what I have to fight for and fight against. As hard as I can.”
Then the boy turned and walked back toward where he had left his friends. I sat in my car for a moment. Maybe I’d be
en right all along to support Boerum’s right to speak. The students had behaved magnificently, and despite the hurt feelings I had just witnessed, perhaps the lesson had outweighed the emotional injury some had experienced.
Maybe. I still wasn’t sure. The memory of the boy shaking with rage would stay with me a long time.
The hospital corridor was empty except for the familiar sight of Norm O’Hare pacing in front of Rosie’s door. He was on his phone and as I came closer, I heard: “Tell them that we don’t have anything to charge Danica Boerum with in Nevada. They’ll have to send someone from LA with a warrant.” He motioned me toward him. “I’m on the phone with LAPD. Go on in.” He inclined his head toward the door of Rosie’s room.
Rosie, propped up in her bed, was also on the phone. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock sharp. And I’m turning the set on now so I can catch you on the news.” She grinned wickedly at me. “That was a reporter from the Los Angeles Times who was here tonight watching the speech.”
“How are you feeling, Rosie?” My voice was dead calm even if my brain was racing.
“I’m feeling grand, Dr. Solaris. How about you?”
“I’m feeling a little terrified, thanks just the same. Do you know who that big man rushing toward you was?”
Wicked smile again. “Yup. That was Big Al. I remember him too. He’s Mama D’s brother. And I’ll bet he’s the one who shot me.”
I sat on the edge of her bed and took her thin white hand in mine. I wanted to squeeze it hard to get her serious attention, but I settled for a firm hold. “Then you know he’s very dangerous, Rosie. And you, my friend, are now in grave danger after that stunt you pulled at the speech.”
Rosie squeezed my hand. “It’ll be okay, Red. I’m fine. I’m guarded by police day and night, if you hadn’t noticed. Besides, you don’t know pimps the way I do. They hate the limelight. My bet is Big Al and his sister and their whole crew are headed out of town as fast as they can.”
Red Solaris Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 63
