The councilwoman then introduced the people at the table; she started with herself and was met with a polite silence, then Susan Hughs, who received hisses. Leah’s name elicited no outward signs of aggression—she could only assume most people didn’t hold her personally responsible—and the fire chief received waves and nods from many of the assembled. Next the councilwoman gestured to the empty chair and said, “Mr. Farrad is the head of the neighborhood council. Please make a note in the minutes that he is absent.” She nodded in the direction of a young man sitting at the end of the table with a laptop open in front of him, who seemed to be a kind of secretary taking notes. “At this time that means I need to ask if anyone else from the council is present and would like to take his place heading up the objections to the zoning ordinance being reviewed.”
An elderly man, who looked as though he might not even make it to the table much less hold his own once he got there, stood and raised a shaky hand. “I’m John Selzin, I’m on the committee, but Mr. Farrad had all the notes and the petition.”
“That’s all right,” Wendy Sostein said. “I’ve got a copy of the petition. If you’ll join us, we can begin.”
They’re fucked, Leah thought as she watched the painful progression of the ancient Mr. Selzin toward the front.
The meeting opened peacefully enough; the councilwoman read the proposed plans for stage three of the Golden Door development and then opened the floor for comments. One by one, some shyly, some nervously, some furiously, people came forward to voice their objections or, far less often, their support. Leah had heard all the arguments against before, and she did not disagree with a single one of them. The development was an eyesore; it had received zoning variances on laws and restrictions in spite of the fact that they had been voted in and imposed on private home owners. Many of the people present had actually been denied those same reductions in lot size or building permits that would have increased the square footage of their homes beyond the amount allowed in proportion to their lots. Both restrictions were being flagrantly flaunted by the Golden Door development. One of the biggest objections was the proposed increase of children in the already crowded schools and traffic that would be funneled through the existing small neighborhoods.
One woman who spoke particularly well said, “You already have five hundred homes going in; each of those homes will have a minimum of two cars. That’s one thousand cars driving past my front door once every morning and once every evening at the very least. Now you want to add another six hundred cars. Just getting through the stop signs is going to be a major problem. And as I understand it”—she shifted her reading glasses and referred to a single sheet—“you have only one route out of the development at this time for eight hundred homes. As I read the law, that’s not legal for even one additional home, and I’d like to ask the councilwoman and Fire Captain Lopez what they expect will happen if there is a fire, or some other emergency?”
Wendy opened her mouth to speak, but Susan cut in. “If I may, councilwoman.” Wendy nodded and sat back, looking slightly relieved for the support. “We are well aware of the zoning requirement for a second road access into the neighborhood for phase three to be safely built.” She paused and rubbed her bandaged arm. “Believe me, I understand the need for fire safety in this and every neighborhood.”
Leah noticed how Susan always used words like neighborhood or homes instead of development or housing project.
“The plans for the new homes,” Susan continued, “already include a second road that will allow easy access for emergency vehicles and lessen the flow of traffic onto any one route.”
At this point the fire captain seemed to come to life and take an interest long enough to lean forward and say, “The laws on this are very clear. There must be maintainable roads, standard turnaround clearance, correctly positioned hydrants, evenly spaced, and multiple accesses.”
No one seemed to know what that meant, but the very fact that someone wearing a dark blue uniform was stating the mandatory requirements, and presumably overseeing them, seemed to muffle the objection.
Leah thought about the plans, a copy of which was in her office, and she could think of no such provision as a second access road. She would check that again tomorrow. She seemed to recall a gray area that had been in the initial buyout plans, an additional road, but even with the zoning variances they had been granted by the councilwoman and her office, that route, which ran through national forest, had been denied.
“I’d like to reassure all of you,” Wendy Sostein was saying, “that the utmost care has been taken to balance the very important economic growth of this fine community with the ecological and practical considerations that you have all mentioned here tonight.”
During the muttering and outright snorts of derision that followed this political sappiness, a man had walked forward and was standing at the podium. Leah recognized him from Jenny’s shower. It was Mindy’s husband, Reading.
The councilwoman nodded at him to take his turn.
Instead of speaking immediately, he turned and looked around at the room. “I know quite a few of you here this afternoon,” Reading began. “Miles, you own the hardware store, and Sherry and Darrel, you guys have the café. Most of you have businesses in the area and all of you have homes, or you wouldn’t be here.” He paused and then leaned farther into the small microphone and spoke very clearly. “You all have homes here. That means somebody built them, on ground that used to not have homes. You all drive cars, on streets, I assume, that didn’t have as much traffic before you came. You use electricity and have lights and play music and work here. Those of you who know me know that I’m working on this development. I live here, and I work here. This is my livelihood. I employ quite a few people too. I see Max Smith back there in the back. I employed your son for two years before he went away to college.”
A kind of shameful hush had fallen over the room. Reading had presence, and he was using it to turn the tide. “This development provides work, income, and profit for many, many people. This is progress, people; this is the healthy growth of our economy. This is how it works in America, the greatest country in the world. Every one of you can sit there and complain about it, or you can benefit and profit from it. It’s gonna happen; you can’t stop it. It’s not illegal to want to give people homes or make money, and if you want to sit there and act like someone else, who wants to work hard and make a better life for their family, is being corrupt or greedy in some way, then you go right ahead. But every single one of you has benefited from being an American, from the freedom that gives us the right to build a better life.” He took a long moment to let his eyes sweep the crowd—Leah noticed that most of them did not meet his gaze—and then he said, “This is America. It’s a free country; I fought to keep it free. And as an American I have a right to do the work I want to do and to make money doing it.”
The sound of a clap pierced the air. A single pair of hands smacking together, slowly at first and then faster and faster, broke Reading’s spell and caused everyone to turn and see who was making the sound.
Near the back Leah could see a arresting-looking man with long, black hair, obviously Native American, who had stood and was clapping alone, but the look on his face could not have been more disgusted.
“Very touching,” he said. “Very moving, and very American, yes, I agree.” He worked his way past the people on his row aisle and walked to the front. Leah found herself breathing in sharply as he passed Reading, almost expecting an act of physical violence, but both men turned their shoulders to allow for the other to move past respectfully and without overt confrontation.
The eye-catchingly dressed man reached the front.
Leah noted a bracelet of silver and turquoise on his wrist that she would have been very proud to own but probably afraid to wear.
“My name is R. J. River. I have lived here, in this valley, all my life. My family, I would venture to say—and I don’t think I’m out of line—has lived here lon
ger than anyone else’s in this room. In fact”—he smiled and winked back at Wendy—“my family lived here long before any of your European, Asian, or African ancestors even knew this continent existed, much less became Americans.” This got a few titters. “So, forgive me if I have a strong opinion about change and what it means to be an American.”
R.J. shifted his weight, cleared his throat, and proceeded. “Now, while I might be descended from one of the first Americans, I’m also one who happens to believe in progress and change that benefits the whole.” He gestured widely with a graceful hand. “I mean, I don’t want to be living in a teepee, scraping deer hide to make moccasins. I like having Payless down the street.” More laughs, slightly louder and braver, came from the crowd. “I bought a little house over on Apperson, fixed it up, sold it, bought a bigger one, fixed that up. I’ve profited from what we like to call the American way.” Here he paused again, and his expression sobered. “But that is not what we are discussing here. We’re talking about capitalism gone seriously wrong. I’m all for progress as it benefits the community, but, though this project benefits many in a smaller way, as my friend Reading pointed out, it primarily benefits only one person in this room.” R.J. raised a finger and pointed it at Susan Hughs. “So, I have a question for our guest developer.” He came to a full stop and looked directly at her. “How much does it cost you to build these atrocities per square foot, and what do you sell them for a square foot?”
Susan smiled smoothly. “I’m sorry, Mr. River, but our private financial records are not at issue here.”
“No”—R.J. cut her off, his voice angry now—“but the fact that it costs you ninety dollars a square foot to build these houses and you sell them for over four hundred a square foot seems to clearly indicate that profit, rather than providing quality housing and healthy communities, is your primary, in fact your sole objective.”
“As far as I know, it’s not illegal to make a profit.” Susan laughed innocently. “I don’t think that’s what’s at issue.”
“No,” R.J. said again. “What is at issue is whether or not it’s immoral and unethical, and yes, even illegal, to effect zoning changes, to build substandard housing that masquerades as luxury, to destroy an ecosystem in order for you to make not just a profit but an obscene fortune. What is at issue is whether or not it is acceptable to rape and pillage and disguise your abuse by calling yourself an American.”
The crowd was on its feet, shouting its approval and support now. Susan Hughs was speaking in a loud, clear, would-be calm voice that no one could hear. Wendy Sostein was shouting for the meeting to come to order and that R.J.’s five minutes were up.
When things did finally calm down, R.J. was still at the podium.
“Thank you for your views, Mr. River. Your time is up,” Wendy Sostein said again, clearly shaken.
“No,” he said in a voice as low and rumbling as thunder, “your time is up. You cannot keep abusing the land and expect that it will continue to support you. Everything is connected, even your corruption.”
“Are you accusing me of criminal action?” The councilwoman was on her feet, clearly outraged. “Are you slandering me?” Leah watched as Susan, still calm and controlled, placed a hand on the other woman’s arm and pressed her back into her seat.
“You were elected to protect the interests of the citizens in this room,” R.J. said very clearly, as though explaining this to a confused child. He looked around at the angry citizens again and then back to her. “They don’t seem to feel very well protected.” And with that he turned, his straight black hair moving gracefully as he stalked purposefully from the room.
There was an uncomfortable silence as Wendy, her face red and tense, shuffled her papers as though trying to get control of herself. In the quiet a clear, even voice spoke. It was Susan Hughs.
“I’d like to address a few of those accusations, if I could. Councilwoman?” She looked to Wendy, who nodded curtly.
“First of all, I want you all to know that my husband and I have spent many years developing communities, quality communities, and we understand that these are places where people will live, make friends, patronize businesses; where their children will go to school, play sports, and grow up. Yes, we make a profit, we are not a charity, but we also do an amazing amount of work. We take a chance, we have investors who count on us to show a profit, and we feel indebted to make one. That is the financial system that this country’s economy is based on.”
She twisted a little in her seat and Leah saw a spasm of pain cross her face, but she doubted if anyone who was not sitting next to her would have noticed it, Susan had covered it so quickly. “Also, I would like to say that this neighborhood will soon become my own. My husband and I are building a house for ourselves in this community, and we have every interest in keeping it healthy, beautiful, and one of the nicest places to live in the Los Angeles area, not only as good businessmen, but as residents.” She paused, taking advantage of the surprised looks her logic had spawned on many faces. “You all live here, so I know I’m preaching to the choir when I tell you how special Shadow Hills is, but I want you to know how much we care. I want you to feel reassured. This is our future home, and we would never do anything to jeopardize the integrity or the safety of our very own neighborhood.”
Leah watched the effective use of what appeared to be sincerity as Susan’s gaze swept the room, moving from one pair of eyes to the next, looking directly at as many of the attendees as possible. Leah was thinking, This woman is a master. Watch and learn, Leah, watch and learn.
“I understand that each of you wants to fight for the place where you live, that is commendable and I support your right to do it—and I join you in it.” Susan glanced over to Wendy, who was looking back at her with her lips slightly parted, as though she were a student of political persuasion watching a seasoned professor. “I see that the meeting is just about over, and I’m sorry to say that I can’t stay and field questions. There was a terrible arson fire last night at the work site, and in my effort to pull the night watchman from a burning trailer, I injured my back and my arm was burned, and though there was no way I was going to miss the opportunity to meet you all and hear your concerns tonight, I’m afraid I must leave you right now. But I want you to know that I’ll be happy to discuss any of your concerns at a later date. I’m going to leave a stack of my cards here; please feel free to e-mail me with any questions you might have. Better yet, come up and see the site, get to know my husband and myself. After all, we’re going to be neighbors.”
After a quick, sweeping smile of the room, too short to invite further comment, Susan glanced at Wendy, who banged a small wooden gavel, officially closing the meeting. Then she stood and began to gather her things before anyone else could react, much less take the floor.
She was out the door in less than twenty seconds. Leah sat, observing the befuddled faces and behaviors of the citizens, who might or might not have realized yet that they had just been blindsided.
Leah had only one coherent thought.
Damn, she’s good.
Chapter 29
Leaving Celia to close up for the day, Greer went out into the still-bright and hot early evening and got into her car. It was the first chance she’d had to be alone since seeing the midnight-colored wings hovering above her, and she’d had no time to stop the whirl of emotion and thought that had tossed and pulled her in so many directions, leaving her feeling seasick and off balance.
She turned on the air-conditioning and collapsed back against the seat, letting out an exasperated, strained sigh. What should she do? What could she do? Of one thing she felt certain: There would be another fire set the day after tomorrow, Columbus Day. But where? She had no starting place, no one to tell or warn. What would she say anyway? Hello, Fire Department? Yes, you don’t know me from Adam, but someone’s going to set a fire on Monday. No, of course not me. Whatever would make you think that?
She’d be suspect number one for absolutely n
o positive advantage.
Think, she told herself. Put it together. There’s a reason you’ve been shown all this. What is it?
She could only think of one person who might be able to help her at all, and she didn’t know why, but he was the only common denominator.
R.J. His paintings had illustrated both the scenes that had fallen prey so far. He would probably think she was insane, or worse, accusing him of inside information on arson, but she had to try. Fishing her phone from her purse, Greer called Whitney and got his number, making it sound like she was interested in one of his paintings.
“When’ll you be home?” Whitney asked.
“Pretty soon. I may have something to do on the way, but I won’t be long. I’ll be there for dinner at seven thirty.”
“Great. I’ve been smelling this bread baking all day, and if I can’t slap some butter on it soon, I might lose it and run amock with a pair of pinking shears. So if you are late, you’ll probably read about it in tomorrow’s paper and it’ll be on your head that Luke has a zigzag scar on one of his butt cheeks.”
Greer laughed. “As long as you get a few women on the jury, I’m certain you’d get off. Especially if Luke shows them his scar.”
“That’s very reassuring,” Whitney said, and hung up.
After a deep breath and a quick mental rehearsal, Greer dialed R.J.’s number. After three rings she was sure she’d get a machine, so she was almost taken aback when he answered curtly.
“Yes?”
“Hi, uh, R.J. It’s Greer Sands, Whitney’s friend. We met at your party last night.”
His tone slid easily into confident amicability. She suspected that he’d been expecting an unpleasant call and was delighted that she wasn’t it. She wondered how long the pleasure would last.
“Listen, I know that it’s last-minute, but I was wondering if I could come by and talk to you about your paintings.”
Speak of the Devil Page 20
