Bad Intent

by Wendy Hornsby

Hector looked at me, I shrugged. He walked over about three desks, crossed his arms, watched us from that remove.

  Marovich turned his simmering wrath on me. “So, talk.”

  “Just tell me,” I said, “how someone as smart as you got into such a stupid mess.”

  That got his back up. “I wasn’t aware that I was in a mess.”

  “Have you seen the polls? Have you seen your opponent’s new commercials? ‘Why does D.A. Marovich want to put a convicted killer back in your neighborhood?’ “

  He sighed and sort of caved in on himself. He dropped into Hector’s chair.

  “I need to know how Charles Conklin came to your attention,” I said.

  “You know the answer to that. I had a meeting with Leroy Burgess.”

  “You wouldn’t give a con man like Leroy Burgess the time of day.”

  “He was channeled by my staff.”

  “Office staff? Or campaign staff?”

  He scowled. “Does it matter?”

  “It matters very much,” I said. “Of course, sometimes it’s hard to tell one from the other. Couple of days ago, Mike Flint filed a claim against George Schwartz’s insurance. Know what he found out? The car belongs to George’s current employer, the Committee to Reelect Baron Marovich. Isn’t it fraud to accept employment when you’re out on disability? Knowing Schwartz’s status, doesn’t that make you party to fraud?”

  “Fuck,” was the answer.

  “Let me tell you how I think this scenario unfolded. If I’m wrong, you correct me.” I sat on the edge of Hector’s desk. “You hired an old pro to run your campaign. Roddy O’Leary did his usual precampaign study: Who are the voters and what gets their attention? Sixty percent minority population, eighty percent minority anger with the police. Roddy went out looking for an attention-getter and he found Conklin for you. White cops, black suspect—it looked like a natural way to plug into the voter’s angst, get a load of votes on the cheap. Then Roddy went out and did his worst—on your behalf—stirred up the community.”

  “Bull,” he snapped. He swiveled his chair away from me, but he stayed in the chair when I half-expected him to walk out.

  I said, “All you had to do was get a judge to agree that there had been improprieties in the original case. Procedural policies change—what case doesn’t have improprieties when you look at it years later? Get a wrongfully convicted man released, you become a hero to eighty percent of the sixty-percent community. Another advantage to using an old case was, the judge probably wouldn’t be too picky. Conklin had already served a longer term than most murderers get anymore.”

  I was talking to the side of his head again. “For insurance, you found a case involving the murder of a cop, because cops usually go after cop killers like bull dogs after red meat, and to hell with the niceties of due process, to quote a friend. Because of that, you assumed police excess. Or Roddy did.”

  He turned his chair back around. “You can’t deny there was excessive use of authority.”

  “You can’t prove it,” I said. “Not with the affidavits I read.”

  “I have the departmental files on Kelsey and Flint. They both have excessive force complaints on their records.”

  “So what? You told me that Conklin’s previous record was not germane to the issue of a fair trial. The same principle holds for Kelsey and Flint, does it not?”

  “Police are held to a different standard.”

  “As they should be. But saying that doesn’t change the facts: Your research was lazy. This was not a typical cop killing, and you should have known it. There was a good investigation, but no dogs-and-posse manhunt for the killer of Wyatt Johnson. No revenge slugfest. And no traditional twenty-one-gun police send-off. You know why?”

  He cocked his head to one side, narrowed his eyes at me.

  “Because the department and the family didn’t want the attention,” I said. “According to his wife, he was out selling vitamins. You’re a man of the world. Tell me about the kind of vitamins sold in ghetto men’s rooms after midnight. Then again, maybe he lied to his wife about why he had to be out at night—wouldn’t be a first.”

  Marovich seemed to pale. “You miss the issue.”

  “You want me to go on TV with you? You want to match files? You bring Kelsey and Flint and I’ll bring Conklin.” I looked at Hector, who was listening, trying to keep a poker face through all of this. “I have a nice montage made from the Monday news broadcasts. I’ll bring that, too: Front shot of Parker Center, angry mob, D.A. nodding while some lunatic says it’s time to go back to the streets to give the police a message.”

  Marovich said, “That’s not the way it was.”

  “That’s the way it looks. There was a second demonstration down on Florence and Normandie—the old riot flash point. You’re the legal expert, but what you’ve done, using Conklin to stir up the public, looks to me a whole lot like conspiracy, inciting to riot.”

  “I’m not clear,” Marovich said. “What is it you want?”

  “Not much,” I said. “I’m offering you a shot at redemption. And I want an hour with Charles Conklin.”

  That bomb cleared the air: both Hector and Marovich laughed.

  When he got his breath back, Marovich said, “Go right ahead. But first, you have to find his attorney, then you have to get her approval. I can’t help you.”

  “I thought you had some influence with your old law partners. Guess I was wrong.”

  “Guess so.” He rose as if to leave. “We’ll discuss it this afternoon.” He glared at Hector. “In public.”

  I stopped him by saying, “I’ve already called Ralph. I won’t do a taping with you.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “We both have too much to lose. I’ve been watching your wheels turn. I know that by air time you’d have a point-by-point rebuttal ready to demolish me. Then I would have to take you down with me, so what would be the point?”

  He gave me an evil leer. “The exercise might be fun.” Hector threw back his head and laughed again.

  I turned to Hector. “Weren’t you looking for some coffee?”

  “There’s a pot right over there,” Hector said. “Help yourself.”

  Marovich said, “You offered me a shot at redemption. What did you mean?”

  “If Jennifer doesn’t show up by tomorrow, Conklin’s hearing will be postponed until he finds new counsel. Could take—when’s the election?—six weeks to bring new counsel up to speed. By then, to borrow from Ralph, Conklin will be a cold story. Six weeks gives you some breathing room.”

  He was shaking his head as I spoke.

  “One question,” I said. “Is your old law firm giving you a flat campaign contribution or are they tying the amount to their take in Conklin’s civil suit?”

  “That’s slander.”

  “So, sue me. Roddy has already threatened to. It’s only slander if what I said was false. I don’t have to remind you that campaign contributions are a matter of public record.”

  “Do you remember the question?”

  “Yes. Save yourself. Go on the air and confess, shed some Jimmy Swaggart tears. Apologize to the people you hurt, show the voters how your innate compassion made you want to believe a man’s sad tale, left you vulnerable. Do that, and I’ll help you out.”

  “Help me?”

  “I’ve made a little film, Anatomy of a Lie. And you’re not the star.”

  Chapter 28

  “I only stopped by for some tapes Jack Riley left for me,” I said. My arms were full. I was trying to effect an escape from Lana Howard’s office without either a major spill or a commitment to a long-term employment contract. I didn’t have a hand for the door, and she wasn’t about to open it.

  “Think about it, Maggie,” she said, whispered tones—a churchlike hush. “Office space, the best facilities, regular paycheck. Use of the letterhead.”

  “I like what I’m doing, Lana. I have to admit that the money is a temptation, but a regular paycheck can be tighte
r than a noose.”

  “I understand that. I understand how important it is for you to maintain control over your projects. But we both know that big world out there can get pretty cold. A regular paycheck can make a damn fine blanket.” She sauntered over to the burl-wood cabinet that held her wet bar; the office was opulent. She took out a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice and poured two glasses—two sparkly clean glasses—offered one to me. “What would it take to bring you in from the cold?”

  I set down the tapes on a comer of her leather sofa to accept the juice. She was watching me, slow smile growing. I respected Lana, respected her judgment. All through this brouhaha I was involved in, she had shown me the best qualities I would want in a boss: flexibility and daring. It wouldn’t be hard to work with her on a regular basis.

  A network job? I ran through the lists of pros and cons, but the heading over both sides ran something like, “You’ve already spent your advance check twice over, Casey’s tuition is due the fifteenth of every month and the money you’re being offered is obscene.”

  Lana reached for my empty glass. “Maggie?”

  “This is what it would take: I sign with you for two years, five months. Two two-hour projects a year on assignment, six short-subjects on topics of my choosing. I have full editorial control. If the network chooses, for whatever reason, not to air any of my projects as-is, the project reverts to me so I can sell it elsewhere. Beyond that, I want the network to rent and furnish my home office space for my use, and I want Guido Patrini hired as a consultant.”

  Lana wrapped me in a big, blanket-like hug. “You’re going to like it here, Maggie.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I have to run it by the board, but I think we’ll come to terms. Welcome aboard.”

  All I could think to say, was, “Damn.”

  I gathered the tapes again and went upstairs where Guido was working with a staff editor.

  “You’re not going to believe what I just did,” I said.

  “That’s highly likely.” He was watching the time on a piece of LaShonda’s interview. “What now?”

  “I got myself hired as a network slave.”

  He jumped as if startled. “Say it ain’t so.”

  “Got you a slot as a consultant.”

  “I have a job,” he said, pausing the tape, turning to face me. “It seems to me it wasn’t so long ago we both burned out in a place that looks and smells a whole lot like this one.”

  “Independent projects only,” I said. “And they’ll let you use the letterhead. That should help your love life.”

  When he glanced at LaShonda’s face on the screen, his features went all mushy. “My love life’s just fine, thank you.”

  I said, “You slut.”

  “Mike called,” he said. “Thanks for reminding me.”

  Guido didn’t know where Mike was, so I dialed his pager and left the number of the phone on the console beside me. Mike took almost a minute to call back.

  “Etta’s been trying to reach you,” Mike said. “Said she’ll be home all afternoon.”

  “I’ll go by and see her,” I said.

  “Want company?”

  “Always.”

  “Thought maybe it was time to take a closer look at what it is you do.”

  I felt suddenly all mushy inside, myself. “I’ll meet you at the new house in fifteen, twenty minutes.”

  I gave Guido a lot of instructions and a big kiss, and ran out to the parking lot.

  The South Pasadena house was getting new trim paint, including the front door. I walked through a maze of scaffolding and ladders to get inside where the dog, lying on his belly in the foyer, watched the ceiling painters. Old Bowse’s big brush of a tail was tipped in a combination of Desert Sunset, the color of the door, and Peaches and Cream, the color of the walls.

  I grabbed Bowser by the collar and asked the painters above me, “Anyone seen Mike?”

  In unison, “Backyard.”

  I led the dog out and closed the doors behind me.

  Mike and Michael were carrying an unfamiliar oak dresser along the walkway between the drive and the cottage. There was a U-Haul truck parked in the drive. With Bowser at my side, I walked across the lawn toward them.

  “What’s this?” I asked, pushing in a dresser drawer that had fallen out.

  “I’m moving in,” Michael said. “Go inside, take a look.”

  “Yeah.” Mike was grinning like he was up to something. “Go take a look.”

  Too nosy to listen to warning voices, I went inside. I don’t know exactly what I expected, hard rock posters maybe, or nudes on the walls. The cottage looked great, rug on the polished wood floor, desk and bookcases to match the dresser, a couple of chairs. And a very attractive woman around my age smoothing a new-looking spread on the bed.

  “Hello,” I said, grabbing Bowser’s collar before he could give her his customary muzzle-in-the-crotch greeting.

  She stood up, smiled while she gave me close inspection. “Maggie?”

  I had to move further into the room so that Mike and Michael could wrestle the dresser through the door. They set it against a side wall and Mike, wiping his face, came up beside me.

  “Maggie,” he said. “Meet Leslie. Michael’s mom.”

  She offered her hand, smiling broadly. “I’ve heard a lot about you. And about Casey.”

  Michael laughed. “Don’t worry. I only tell Mom the good stuff.”

  “That’s a relief,” I said. It was so strange to look into this woman’s face; echoes of Michael’s face. I felt neither awkward nor competitive, as I had when Charlene showed up on my doorstep. Only curious. Leslie was, in several ways—in height and build, and in general manner—a darker version of me.

  I said, “The cottage looks wonderful, Michael. After spending a week on the couch, the privacy should be a relief”

  He looked around at his new quarters. “I don’t know. I got used to the company.”

  “Couches,” Mike said, as if some switch had been hit. “The dealer Charlene works for has made an offer on all the condo furniture. Anybody want any of it?”

  Michael said, “I don’t have room for anything else.”

  I said, “No,” trying to make it sound like a casual no and not a thank God, get that gray shit out of my life no. I had already spoken to my old tenant, Lyle, about taking my furniture out of storage and sending it down.

  “Les?” Mike said. “You have an empty room now. Want anything?”

  She snickered. “Think about it, Mike.” Then she turned to Michael and draped an arm over his shoulders. “What’s left in the truck?”

  “The dresser was the last of it.”

  “Then, let’s go get your car, turn in the truck.”

  “Where are you sleeping tonight?” Mike asked Michael.

  “Thought I’d have a farewell run on the couch.” Michael gave his dad a hug, then, to my delight and surprise, came over and hugged me, too. “I’ll be home after dinner.”

  Arm in arm, Mike and I walked out to see off Michael and his mother. As the truck backed into the alley, I said, “I like her.”

  “So do I.” The way Mike said it didn’t bother me at all.

  On the way down to Southeast, we stopped at a mall and bought Etta some gift certificates at a department store she had mentioned fancying. Welfare recipients are supposed to report any windfall they receive. I wanted to give her some share in my own windfall, but in a way that wouldn’t get her into a hassle with the county. Gift certificates was the best I could come up with.

  “You mean they’re going to pay our rent?” Mike asked, scowling his disbelief as I explained Lana’s offer.

  “A big part of it. You can start socking away more of your salary for retirement.”

  His sly glance was a tip-off. “So, you do plan to stay put for a while. Every time I go home, I check the closet to make sure your stuff’s still there.”

  “You do not.”

  He didn’t seem very ha
ppy, so I didn’t press him.

  It was about one when we got to Etta’s. There didn’t seem to be anyone home. I wrote a note telling her where she could reach me at four, and was tucking it into her screen door when I heard her call out.

  “Look at who’s here.” Etta, dressed as for church in a flowered sheath dress, tottered toward us on her high heels. She had a beer can in one manicured hand. “Girl, I been tryin’ to get ahold of you for two days.”

  “What’s up?” I asked. But she turned her attention to Mike.

  “Won’t you give this lady some sugar, Sugar?” She pressed her impressive bosom against Mike. “Been such a long, long time.”

  “You look nice, Etta,” I said, asserting my presence. “Where’s the party?”

  She preened. “Party’s at Miz Rhodes’ house. Had the memorial for Hanna this morning after church, asked some of her closest friends to come by for a little lunch. That’s where I was when I saw you knockin’ at my door.”

  “Is that what you called about?” I asked.

  “No. I wanted to tell you I don’t care no more if that motherfuckin’ Pinkie gets out the jail or not. Tyrone copped him a plea. He’s goin’ to jail his own damn self so I don’t have to worry after him no more. He don’t need no father where he’s goin’. And he damn sure don’t need no Pinkie, neither.”

  “What did he draw?” Mike asked.

  “Much as he could. He’s goin’ to the Youth Authority till he’s twenty-five.” Etta finished her beer. “Hope he uses that time to turn himself around, finish school maybe.”

  “I hope so,” I said, though I couldn’t imagine how growing to manhood in that hole could change the course he had set for his life.

  Etta crumpled the empty can. “Don’t stand out here. Come on in and pay your respects to Miz Rhodes, get yourself a little refreshment.”

  “I’ve been trying to reach Mrs. Rhodes. I want to talk to her about Hanna,” I said. “But maybe this isn’t the time.”

  “No time better. I told her all about you.”

  I took a camera from the back of the car, loaded it with a new tape and a battery fresh from the recharger, and passed it to Mike. “Best way to get a closer look at what I do is to look through the lens. Just remember that the camera has a slower eye than you do. If you make abrupt movements, you get blur.”