by Nick Svolos
“Nothing new about that,” Herculene grumbled.
“Right, but the purpose of activism is to get the power structure to do something it doesn’t want to do, namely give up power. These protests look to be designed to do the exact opposite.”
“Oh crap,” I said as I followed Bill’s train of thought to a logical conclusion. “She’s working for the government.”
Bill snapped his fingers. “That’s gotta be it.” He got up from his chair. “If you two will excuse me, I have some research to do.” He started to walk away but came back to grab the wedge of pie he’d ordered for dessert before heading to the elevators.
Helen grinned at me. “You and your nose for news.”
I winked back. “You love my nose, and you know it.”
“Among other things,” she purred as she took a sip from her coffee. “So, you’re gonna fly up to San Francisco?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think the paper will cover the plane fare. I figure I’ll just get up early tomorrow and drive up.”
“In your dad’s jalopy? Gas will cost ya more than a plane trip. You’d be better off borrowing my car. But, you’ll still lose what, twelve hours in travel time? Well, eleven, the way you drive.”
“Good point.” I checked my watch. Harry tended to go to bed early, but I thought he might still be up. “I guess I better call Harry and see if he’ll spring for expenses.”
***
To my astonishment, Harry didn’t give me too much trouble with the travel expenses once I’d explained what I’d learned and so, after a good night’s sleep, I found myself on the seven o’clock commuter flight to San Francisco. I spent the time productively, typing up the Jorgensen story, what I had of it so far, and developing a list of questions I planned to ask Protest Girl if I managed to get some time with her. When you do an interview, you want to have a plan. The main problem I had was figuring out a clever way to get her to confirm a connection between her and the government. That would be big, if I could pull it off.
The plane landed, cutting my mulling short, and I joined the throng working its way through the terminal and out to the street. I found my way to the BART station, took it up to the Civic Center station, switched to the MUNI and rode that all the way to Golden Gate Park. As a lifelong Los Angelino, I’m always fascinated by the public transportation systems in other cities. Don’t get me wrong, I love driving, but there’s something to be said for just getting where you want to go without having to stress over traffic or finding a parking spot.
I got off the electric bus, took a leisurely stroll around Spreckels Lake and got to the Polo Field around ten. There wasn’t any fence to stop me from entering the area, so I walked down the gentle slope to the field. It was a wide, open area and a cold, damp breeze blew in from the Pacific, making me glad I’d remembered to wear a jacket for this trip. I saw some workers putting up some sort of stand down at one end of the field, so even though I had a few hours to kill, at least I was in the right place. I snapped a couple of photos just to have something to do, and I decided to walk over to see who they worked for.
I asked around for a foreman and once I found him, I learned that the city was footing the bill for the stands. I asked if they were being reimbursed by the protest organizer, but the foreman didn’t know. I filed it away as something to follow up on later. I left him to his work and retreated to the wide bench seats that lined the slope above the polo field. It was out of everyone’s way and gave me a good vantage point to see who showed up.
To my surprise, the San Francisco Police called me while I was sitting there. The officer on the other end of the call politely apologized for not getting back to me sooner and informed me there was indeed a rally scheduled for today and gave me the location and time info I had already learned. Better late than never, I guess. He also informed me that the appropriate way for me to get such information in the future would be to contact their Media Relations office. Huh, Media Relations. I guess I should have thought of that. I was so used to being stonewalled by them that I just avoided them out of habit. Maybe there was a use for them after all.
I apologized for not following the proper channels and thanked him for his assistance. As we terminated the call, I heard a voice behind me ask, “Reuben Conway? Of the Los Angeles Beacon?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” I replied as I turned in my seat to see who it was, and whatever smart-assed quip I might have made as a follow-up died before it left my brain’s speech center. Standing there a few steps above the bench I sat on was Protest Girl. She was an incredibly attractive woman with shoulder-length brown hair tied back in a ponytail. She had her hands stuck in the pockets of a black wool pea coat she wore. She pulled a hand out and offered it to me.
As we shook, she said, “I was wondering when you’d turn up. Mind if I take a seat?”
“Not at all,” I said, wiping some of the dew from the aluminum bench next to me. It always pays for a gentleman to keep a few fast-food napkins in his jacket pocket. Emily Post would have been proud. “I take it you were expecting me?”
“If not today, then soon,” she shrugged. “Seems to be the sort of thing you’d take an interest in. Actually, I expected you to turn up at the L.A. rally.”
“Believe it or not, it was over before I even found out about it. Sorry I missed it.”
She looked down at the field. “Yeah, we’re having a hard time promoting the cause and getting the word out.”
I pulled out my recorder. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”
She turned to me with feigned indignation, “Really? I thought we were just having a friendly chat.”
I chuckled amiably. “I’m afraid there’s no such thing in journalism. It’s actually for your protection as much as mine. Keeps me from putting words in your mouth or taking something out of context.”
She dismissed my explanation with a little smirk. “No problem, record away.”
“Thanks,” I said as I pressed the record button. “So, what’s your name?”
“Shirley Richardson.”
“So, seven cities in two weeks.” I rattled off the list of cities. “That’s a lot of traveling.”
She laughed. “God, has it been that many? It’s just been so busy, I think I’ve kind of lost track. But the importance of the work has been carrying me through. It energizes me.”
“Sounds like you’re pretty motivated. Mind if I ask why?”
“Well, I just think it’s critical to make normal people aware of the destruction these super types cause, the lives they ruin, not to mention the effect they have on our society.”
“What kind of effects are those?”
“Well, there’s the general disregard for the law, for starters. You and I can’t just go out and dispense justice. We’d be locked up, and for good reason. There’s the property damage they cause, not to mention the innocent people that get caught in the crossfire. Do you know how many people were killed in the refinery attack last summer?”
The numbers from that disaster were something I’d never forget. “Fourteen, and another forty-six injured.”
“Exactly. All those lives ended or ruined, all the economic damage, and for what? So one gang of super-powered lunatics could attack their rivals. How long can we allow this to go on? Tell me, Mr. Conway, what do you think would happen if the two gangs didn’t have super powers?”
“I imagine they’d all be arrested.”
“My point exactly. Instead, the winning gang is hailed as heroes and everyone just goes along with it and cleans up their mess as if this is the way things should be. That’s the effect I’m talking about. We accept this as normal. Children look up to them and want to be like them. Hell, we do everything but set up altars and worship them as gods.”
“So, what’s your solution, then? What kind of change are you hoping to bring about with all of this?”
“That’s not for me to say. I’m just a citizen trying to wake people up, make them see the truth behind the lies
they’ve been fed. These people aren’t our protectors. It’s up to the government to solve the problem, but they won’t do it until the people force them into action.”
“And you don’t find that problematic? Giving the government that kind of power?”
“Of course. Safeguards would have to be in place, but that’s part of the process. We’re just trying to get the process started.”
“I see,” I said, considering her arguments. They were good, and well-delivered, but they were hardly new. Our culture has been debating this for a long time. At any rate, I felt I had enough of the standard party line to establish the background. I moved on to get the answers I really wanted. “So, maybe you could help clear something up for me. Do you represent an organization? Clearly one person can’t carry the whole load of setting these demonstrations up.”
She smiled. “We’re called the Citizen’s Outreach for Normalcy. We’re still pretty small, but we’re dedicated and our numbers are growing.”
“Got it.” I flipped back in my notes for reference. “But, the parade permit in Chicago was pulled by a group called ‘United Chicagoans for Safety’, and in Tampa it was ‘Normal Citizens’ Action Front’. Are these part of your organization?”
She hesitated briefly, as if she wasn’t quite expecting this line of questioning. “Affiliates. We’ve found that there are similarly-minded citizens everywhere. We’ve been working hard to make sure everyone can have their voices heard.”
I nodded, and then led her into one of my hardball questions. “Is Shirley Richardson your real name?”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Well, of course it is,” she answered defensively. “Do I need to show you my driver’s license or something?”
“It would help establish your credibility,” I answered, thinking I was calling her bluff. To my surprise, she pulled a small wallet out of her bag and handed me her ID. I took a moment to examine it, running my thumb over the raised signature and holding it up to the light to see the laser-engraved outline of a California brown bear. If it was a fake, it was a damned good one. I jotted down her Modesto address and handed the ID back.
“I’m sorry if it seemed like an odd request, but I like to be thorough. You see, I’ve spoken with my colleagues in other cities and they tell me you’ve given them different names.” I ran through the list of aliases she’d used.
She paused as she put her wallet away, and her smile was a lot less friendly than it was a few minutes ago. “I can see you’ve done your homework, Reuben. Let’s just say, that I find it safer to operate under an assumed name. I’d rather not have a visit from one of your superpowered friends.”
“I can understand that,” I allowed, letting her trip herself up on her own lie. “So, that ID is a fake?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well, then, didn’t you just give me your real name and address? Doesn’t that put you in danger?”
“I trust you to be discreet.” She casually leaned back, crossing her long, denim-clad legs. Her peacoat slid open slightly, just enough to reveal her tight sweater and hint at the contour of her breasts. “You have something of a reputation, Reuben. You wouldn’t put someone in danger like that.”
“You got me there,” I admitted. It was pretty obvious she was testing me, playing on her sex appeal to throw me off. Unfortunately for her, she wasn’t the first beautiful woman I’d interviewed. “Besides, when I follow up on this address, it’s not gonna check out, is it?”
She sighed, giving up on her little game of hide and peek. “No, I’m afraid not. I’ve moved since then, and they haven’t sent me a new license yet.”
“Fair enough. What’s your current address, then?”
She turned off my recorder with a gentle press of one delicate finger. “Nicely played, Mr. Conway.” She looked up at the bandstand the workers were constructing, and stood up. “Ah, I can see they’re almost done. I’ve enjoyed our chat, but it’s time for me to get to work. I have a stage to set.”
Time for a parting shot. Sometimes it pays to hit people when they’re trying to get away. “There’s one more thing I wanted to follow up on, if you can spare a moment. When I asked you about your motivation, you said it was to raise awareness about superhumans and the problems they cause.”
She looked down at me, uncertainty flashing across her features. “That’s right.”
“Well, you told William Bedwell that your father died in the refinery attack. Seems like that would have been a stronger lead. Can you help me understand why you didn’t open with that?”
She walked a few steps down the bench seats before stopping and looking back at me. “I hope you’re planning to stick around for the rally, Mr. Conway. I’d like for you to hear our message.”
I smiled amiably. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She turned to walk away and I called after her, “About your father. Can you give me his name?” She ignored me and continued on down to the field. I watched her for a bit as she went over to the foreman and began a walkthrough of the completed structure. Some more people arrived and began hanging banners with slogans such as “Rights for Normal People”, “Our Voice is our Superpower!” and “Safe Cities Now!”
I ran through my notes from the interview and replayed some of the recording while everything was still fresh in my mind. A quick search on my phone for the newest organization she gave me, this “Citizen’s Outreach for Normalcy”, yielded nothing, so I chalked it up as another false front. Nothing unexpected there.
It was clear she knew who I was and how I paid my rent. Hell, she spotted me while I was facing away from her. It seemed illogical for her to assume I wouldn’t have backtracked her steps and come across the false identities and non-existent “affiliates”. Considering how cheap and easy it is to put up a simple website, it just didn’t make sense that she’d skip that step. It felt sloppy. I began to question my hypothesis that she was working for the feds. I didn’t have a lot of faith in government, but it didn’t seem like the sort of mistake they’d make. Maybe they were trying to make it look amateurish to throw guys like me off the scent.
So, if not the government, who was she working for? I was convinced she wouldn't have shown me her ID if it was on the level, so it had to be a fake. It was way too good to be the sort of fake you could pick up on the cheap. That fit with the government angle, but it could also have been made by an expert counterfeiter. In that case, her backers could be some well-funded criminal operation. That kind of quality comes at a high price.
I could understand why she’d obscure her identity. Shoot, no normal wants to find themselves on the hit list of a super. That’s just plain scary. But then, why would she choose to operate in secret? There’s safety in numbers. A super might get away with a single murder, but to go blast/smash/teleport to another dimension a very public advocacy group would be a bit over the top. It would be too public, and nobody was powerful enough to survive the kind of heat that would bring.
Then there was Protest Girl’s reaction when I asked about her father. No anger or outrage. Not even a half-baked lie. Sometimes you can learn more when they don’t answer a question. Between that and the ID, my takeaway was that she was a fake and was backed by people powerful enough that she didn’t care if I knew it.
Seeing that I still had well over an hour before the rally was supposed to start, I mulled things over while I walked around the park to see if there was any place to grab some lunch. I asked a local and she told me there were several food stands back towards the more heavily-traveled East end of the park, so I headed that way, got a hot dog and started heading back to the Polo Field in time to join the increasing flow of traffic moving in the same direction.
This gave me an opportunity to do several quick man-on-the-streets with the people I walked with. With my recorder in hand, I asked the usual questions. “Why did you come today?” “What do you think should be done?” Stuff like that. It’s fun. You get to meet a lot of people. Some want to talk and some don’t. Wit
h the one’s that do, some of them you can joke around with. Some of them won’t stop talking. Each person was like a little puzzle I had to solve, with a good quote as my potential reward.
The people I walked with were a rather eclectic bunch, and as we joined the growing crowd at the Polo Field, it became even more so. There was a cross section of San Franciscans drawn from all over the city, and plenty of people from farther away around the region. There were the protest junkies, you know, the kind of people who just get off on the energy of a crowd calling for some social change. There were the paranoiacs, who lectured me in diatribes, just this side of raving, about conspiracies involving everything from the federal government to the local Elks Lodge. There were tons of college kids, seemingly more interested in flirting and virtue-signalling than to stand tall against the threat of superhumans. And of course, there were the True Believers, people who echoed Shirley’s arguments with purpose.
I got to joking around with one of the more talkative attendees, and offhandedly asked, “Say, how’d you find out about this thing, anyway?”
She had a curious look for a second and answered, “You know, I can’t remember. I guess I heard about it on the radio or something.”
This triggered my curiosity, and as I continued talking to people, I worked the question of how they heard about the event into the rotation. There were plenty of people who learned about it from social media or friends, but there were a lot more people who couldn’t give me an answer. It was like they just showed up there without any reason they could put their finger on. Now my journalistic instincts were buzzing. I was on to something. I started asking these individuals where they were from and they all responded that they lived or worked, “Just a few blocks from here.” None of them knew anyone named Shirley Richardson, nor had they heard of any of the organizations she claimed to represent.
