Family Reunion

by Nicholas Sarazen

  "Hey, you don't apologize when you uncover the biggest embezzlement scheme in the history of L.A. government. Anyway, I'm more than satisfied with second place."

  Stephanie introduced Mathers to her father and the two spent the next few minutes talking about sports. Stephanie looked around the banquet room for her editor, Hal Blancett. He was more than half an hour late, and the awards presentations would be beginning soon. Hal had nominated her and had been the first to tell her she had won. She would be disappointed if he weren't there to see her accept the award.

  Mathers toyed with the wing nut on one of the crutches lying across the empty chair. "So how's the knee, Stephanie?"

  "The stitches are coming out tomorrow. My doctor wants me to stay on crutches another week, but I don't think I can wait that long. I'm planning on hitting the slopes as soon as I can."

  "I hope this time they don't hit back." Mathers grinned and reached into his coat pocket. He fanned four tickets in front of her. "I almost forgot, are you up to a Lakers-Bulls game tomorrow night with Jenny and me? Magic Man against Air Jordan? The guy who gave me these said they're great seats, just a few rows up from where Nicholson sits. I've got four, so you can bring your dad. What do you say?"

  "We'd love to," Stephanie said, "but Dad has to fly back to Iowa in the morning. Besides, I don't think I should go waltzing around The Forum on crutches. But keep me in mind next time."

  "Count on it. Well, I'd better get back to my table. I got stuck with the entire staff of some Garden Grove neighborhood weekly, all two of them, and they've been entertaining me into a coma." Mathers leaned down and gave Stephanie a hug. "Let me win next year, okay?"

  "Not a chance. I'm going for bookends."

  The awards ceremony began and people paraded to and from the podium. Stephanie pointed out the more prominent California journalists for her father. Then it was time for the Sentinel Award, the California Newspaper Association's top prize for investigative reporting. Stephanie's father reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," came the voice through the public address system, "our next category embodies the very essence of journalism, both the privilege and the obligation of a free press."

  Stephanie knew it would take her awhile to hobble to the front of the room, so she got her crutches. Her father came around and helped her to her feet. She started toward the podium.

  From the time Stephanie was a little girl her father had taught her that first place was the only place that truly meant anything. For California journalists, the Sentinel Award was not only first place, it was the next best thing to a Pulitzer. When she first took the job with the Tribune she had set a timetable of three years for winning one of the CNA awards. She was a year ahead of schedule and would be the youngest woman ever to win the Sentinel Award. It meant everything to her that her father had been able to fly out to see her accept it.

  The speaker continued. "It is my pleasure to announce this year's winner...from the Los Angeles Tribune..." Stephanie was almost to the podium, "...Adrian D. Mathers."

  Stephanie had started up the steps before the words registered. Adrian D. Mathers! Throughout the banquet hall she could hear muffled voices. She felt her face flush. Dazed, she first looked back at Adrian, then at her father. Both seemed equally shocked and confused. She wanted to disappear from the room, from the planet. She was starting to turn around on her crutches when she caught one of her heels on a microphone cord. She tumbled to the floor. As everyone in the room looked on, her father rushed to her side and helped her up, then guided her back to their table.

  Stephanie felt numb all over. In the distance she could hear Adrian Mathers stumbling through an impromptu acceptance speech.

  Stephanie was sitting amidst the sea of desks on the fifth floor of the McKinnon Building when Hal came in and sat down. She knew he had come up the back stairs to avoid walking past her.

  Word of what had happened at the awards luncheon had already filtered back to the City Desk, and she could hear whispers over the click of the keyboards of the video display terminals. All over the room heads were raised, watching to see what would happen. Stephanie stared at Hal, but he continued to shuffle through papers without looking up. She didn't bother using her crutches when she got up and limped over to his desk.

  "Hi, Steph." Hal gestured to a chair. "I guess I know why you're here."

  "Hal, you told me two weeks ago I had won."

  Hal took a deep breath and ran his hands through his thinning, sandy hair. Stephanie waited for him to speak. She was used to the nervous routine he followed whenever he had something difficult to say. First he took a sip of his ever-present Cherry Coke, then got out a cigarette. He lit it and took two deep drags, then finished the ritual by clearing his throat.

  "You did win, Steph," he finally said. "Just like I had told you. But the Trib withdrew your nomination."

  "What are you talking about? Why?"

  "It was Melrose. He told me just this morning that he had called the CNA a week ago and demanded that your name be withdrawn from consideration for the Sentinel Award."

  "He can't do that," Stephanie protested, her voice rising.

  "He can and he did. Since the nomination came from the Trib, it can be withdrawn by the Trib."

  "But why? Why would he do that to me?"

  "You know why. You wouldn't go out with him. He didn't say that in so many words, but we both know Melrose. He'll screw you one way or another. Besides, he knew Adrian had been picked as runner-up, so the Trib was going to walk away with the Sentinel Award anyway."

  "You know I like Adrian, but that award was mine!" Stephanie was trembling with anger. "I don't believe this. You can't imagine how humiliated I was, standing up and making an absolute fool of myself in front of people I really respect." She stopped and looked at Hal. "Why did you let me go without telling me?"

  "I'm sorry, Steph. Melrose kept me in the meeting until you had already left. He knew I would have told you."

  "You nominated me, Hal. Didn't you try to talk him out of it?" She paused for his reply, but Hal only looked down. "You didn't go to bat for me, did you? You didn't say anything."

  Hal crushed out his cigarette and continued to mash it into the ashtray long after it was extinguished. "I did, but the damage had already been done." He drew in a long breath and let it out. "Look, Steph, there are some other dynamics at work here. Hinkle's not coming back from that heart attack. I'm Acting City Editor now, and sooner or later they're going to name a permanent replacement. I've been an Assistant C.E. for so stinking long I've thought I'd never move up. I turn forty-five next month. This is my last shot. You'll have lots of opportunities to win a Sentinel Award. You're damn good and you know it. But this is it for me. If I don't get the C.E. job this time I never will. Please try to understand." Hal tilted his Coke can back and forth. "Look, I couldn't have talked Melrose out of it anyway."

  "Probably not, but you could have at least tried. You know I would have done it for you." Stephanie got up to leave.

  "Wait a minute, Steph. Where are you going?"

  "To see Melrose."

  Lance Melrose looked up when Stephanie opened the door to his office. The jet-black hair combed straight back, the square jaw, and his shadowed cheeks made him look like a jock out of a deodorant commercial. He gave Stephanie a smirk when she came in. "I see we're still using the sticks."

  She stopped in front of his desk. "I'm not here to discuss my health," she snapped. "I want to know why you took the Sentinel Award from me."

  Melrose folded his arms across his chest and shrugged. "It's my prerogative. Besides, I thought Adrian's story was better."

  Stephanie leaned over and shook a finger in his face. "First of all, you're in charge of Fiscal, not my life. And second, it's not your job to decide which one is better. I worked hard putting that story together and I did a good job. No, a great job. The CNA thought so, too. That award should have been--"

  "Hold on right there,"
Melrose interrupted. "I may not be your boss, but I can have your pretty little ass out the door in five minutes if I want. I don't know where you get off thinking you can just barge in here without an appointment, take up my valuable time, and talk to me like that. Kenyon, you'd better learn in a hurry that the Trib can survive just fine without you."

  Chapter 3

  June 1990

  It was one of those Mondays when it seemed as though the pavement beneath her feet would stretch forever.

  Stephanie headed down Lexington Road, past the stately homes with lawns so meticulously sculpted that each blade of grass looked to have been individually planted and trimmed. It was not yet six o'clock and the mid-June sun, which would rise to full fury by afternoon, now only peeked timidly through the clouds.

  The dull ache in Stephanie's left knee made her adjust her stride. Her turquoise and white New Balance shoes were well worth the price she paid because they absorbed most of the impact as she ran. The sudden tumble down the slope in Vail five months before had torn cartilage in her knee. Even though she had undergone arthroscopic surgery, she still had some instability when she walked or ran on uneven surfaces.

  Stephanie turned onto Alpine Drive, the backstretch of the course she had run daily for the past two months. Her pace was brisk but her breathing remained steady. She had the classic upright form of a marathoner, arms moving rhythmically with no wasted effort, even though her longest race to date had been only ten kilometers. At one hundred twenty-three pounds, her five-feet seven-inch frame seemed to float between steps. She smiled and greeted two overweight, middle-aged men who a week ago had playfully told her they took up jogging only because she ran through their neighborhood at the same hour every morning.

  She looked at her watch. She had an appointment at nine, but first she needed to drop off her car at Tanner's Garage so they could find out why it kept stalling. Randy Ebert, her boyfriend of eight weeks, had promised to stop by and follow her to the shop. After she took him to work she'd be able to use his car the rest of the day.

  The fishnet running suit clung to her skin by the time she began her finishing kick over the last hundred yards. She raised her arms as she passed the stop sign that marked the end of her course, then bent over, hands on her knees. Someone once told her that distance is the opiate of the runner. She would need to increase her mileage to find out, because at her current level of four miles a day she found little pleasure and much pain.

  For more than two years Stephanie had lived on the upper floor of a carriage house on the Beverly Hills property of Jessie Helmsley, an energetic, independent widow who proudly admitted to every one of her seventy-nine years. Jessie had outlived two husbands and often teased that Stephanie, at twenty-seven, would become an old maid if she didn't marry soon.

  As Stephanie passed Jessie's house she saw that the Tribune was no longer in the niche of the huge stone gatepost. Jessie read the paper over breakfast every morning. Stephanie always checked the gatepost on the way back from her run to be sure her landlady was up and about.

  Randy's red Corvette wasn't in the driveway. Stephanie's legs tingled and her left knee felt weak as she climbed the outer stairs to her apartment. Before showering she tried Randy's number, but there was no answer. He still wasn't there by the time she had dried her hair and dressed. She called Tanner's Garage to reschedule her appointment. It would be another week before they could take a look at her car.

  On the way to her interview Stephanie found herself still upset. It wasn't the first time Randy had proven himself irresponsible, and she was beginning to wonder why she put up with him.

  To get her mind off Randy she started thinking about her upcoming interview with Colonel Tom Willis, the director of Severman House. She already had done quite a bit of research. Isaac Severman, a multi-millionaire industrialist, had opened Severman House in 1968 after the death of his son, Aaron. Aaron Severman had been living in a beach house in Venice, running with bikers, body builders, and acid queens. One night he indulged in too much of whatever mind-altering substance was in vogue at the time. He was too disoriented to find his way home but somehow ended up in a transient shelter. Though he obviously needed medical attention, he was simply given a blanket and instructed to find a space on the floor to sleep. By morning he was dead from a drug overdose. Isaac Severman never recovered from the loss of his only son. He founded Severman House and established the Severman Guild, vowing to provide the homeless not only with food and shelter, but also with medical care and job assistance. Severman died a few years later, but Severman House, funded by an endowment from the Severman Guild, continued to serve the greater Los Angeles community.

  Stephanie's assignment was to focus on growing neighborhood unrest over Severman House. Isaac Severman had envisioned a comprehensive service facility that would meet the needs of formerly-employed people who were temporarily down on their luck. Referrals were to come from churches, social service agencies, and shelters, and for a long time Severman House operated on that basis. But in recent years, as the area deteriorated and the homeless population grew, more and more of the residents turned out to be criminals, drug addicts, and other troublesome street people. The Severman Guild had cut back funding, so Severman House had to get by with a smaller staff, resulting in less supervision of the residents. In the past few weeks there had been several assaults in the area and business owners and their customers were frightened and angry.

  Stephanie began to watch for the shelter. Soon she spotted the three-story house on her right. She didn't have to look at the sign above the entrance or the numbers on the house to know that she had the right address. Several men sat on the front porch playing cards. Another man, stripped to the waist, was sprawled on the yard, probably sleeping off a drunk. She couldn't wait to meet Colonel Willis. What a winner he must be, she thought. She slipped her Toyota into a small parking space in front of the shelter, rolled up the windows, and locked the door. As she stepped from the car a chorus of catcalls greeted her.

  "Well, well, well, would you look at that! Hey, honey, why don't you come up here and exercise my love muscle," called out one of the men. The suggestion was followed by jeers and cheers from other men on the porch. "All right!" said another when she turned and headed up the walk. "She wants me."

  The man in the yard was snoring as she passed. She walked up the steps, stopped, and stared at the four men seated around the card table. They ran their eyes up and down her body, but now, apparently less bold, said nothing.

  "Pardon me," Stephanie began, looking directly back at them, "but could one of you gentlemen be so kind as to direct me to Colonel Tom Willis?"

  There was silence until a squeaky voice said, "Yes, ma'am, I can."

  For the first time Stephanie noticed a small man who had been sitting alone at the end of the porch. His was not one of the voices that had been so vulgar only moments before and yet so silent now. He fit the image she had in her mind of a typical shelter resident. His hair was oily and unkempt. Dark circles ringed even darker brown eyes. Sparse patches of what seemed to be a three- or four-day growth of whiskers sprouted from sunken, pock-marked cheeks. As he walked toward her he seemed to be trying to force his slight body up to a greater height.

  "Thank you. I'm Stephanie Kenyon, from the Tribune." She offered her hand.

  The small man brushed his right hand against the side of his trousers and accepted the handshake. "Glad to meet you, ma'am. My name's Eddie Messina, but my friends all call me Weasel. Follow me. I'll take you to Colonel Willis."

  Severman House wasn't the dirty, roach-infested barrack she had expected. The slate floor of the entryway had a fresh-scrubbed appearance. A hand-carved newel post and banister graced the staircase to the right. She glanced at the front rooms as they walked down the hallway. All were painted in pastels and had comfortable-looking Naugahyde couches, end tables with brass accent lamps, and braided area rugs. Weasel gave her a quick tour of the entire house except for the sleeping quarters where some
of the residents were still dressing. He walked at a rapid pace but talked even faster, not bothering to pause for a response.

  "So you're a reporter, huh? For the Tribune? Now that's big time, mighty big time. I knew you were comin' out to interview Colonel Willis. He told me about it. He's a real nice man. He sure helped me get back on my feet. There's a lot of guys around here that would probably be dead if it wasn't for Colonel Willis, and they know it, too. Shoot, he's all the time loanin' guys money and nobody ever pays him back. He don't mind, though. He just keeps helping people."

  For the first time Weasel raised his head and looked directly at Stephanie. Before she could speak, he went on. "Well, here we are. This is Colonel Willis' office. Just walk right on in. You don't even have to knock. That's the way Colonel Willis is. His door's always open, even when it's closed." Weasel beamed at her like a child expecting a pat on the head for a job well done.

  "Thank you, Eddie. I've enjoyed talking with you." Stephanie again held out her hand.

  "It's Weasel, Miss Kenyon. Like I said, my friends call me Weasel and I want you to be my friend." He shook Stephanie's hand, but held it only a moment. "By the way, Miss Kenyon, if you're lookin' for something to write about, I got a great story."

  Weasel's neck was long and thin and, as he cocked his head back, his Adam's apple became more prominent.

  "This story is big," he said in a whisper. "Real big."

  "That would be nice. Maybe I can come back sometime and you can tell me all about it," she said, trying to gently put him off. "But right now I'm working on another story and Colonel Willis is expecting me. So if you'll excuse me." This time Stephanie gave Weasel no chance to reply. She rapped on the door and opened it after a man's voice invited her to come in. As she turned and started to close the door she could see the disappointment on Weasel's face.

  "Okay," she sighed. "Wait for me on the porch and maybe we can talk for a minute after Colonel Willis and I are through."