Family Reunion

by Nicholas Sarazen

  "My, we've done a bit of a one-eighty, haven't we? You certainly weren't this enthusiastic last week."

  Hal looked a bit flushed. "I've had more time to consider it, all right? So what have you got so far?"

  "Well, Weasel and I were together all day Friday going through the book. We came up with a list of thirty-eight people, but I'm pretty sure that not all of them are going to jump at the chance to expose themselves as former Mother Earth Family members."

  Hal nodded. "Yeah, I guess that's something you wouldn't want to put on a banner and trail behind an airplane, is it?"

  "I'm going to call everyone on my list and get some preliminary information, then set up a time I can meet with the ones who are willing to talk to me."

  "Good. You're going to need travel authorization, so let me know your itinerary once it's firm. I'll clear everything through Fiscal. All these people you're interviewing...they live in California, don't they?"

  "Actually, there is one in Florida, one in New York, and another one in Boston, but I'll cross them off the list if I can get approval for the trip to Hawaii."

  "Nice try."

  "Don't worry, they're all in California. There are several in the Bay area, a couple in Sacramento, one in Fresno. A few are in small places I've heard of, but I'm not sure where they are. Most of them live around here, though."

  "Steph," Hal said, his voice now softer, "once I got approval for your idea I knew you'd have some traveling to do and we wouldn't have much time to play around with. I called Melrose to let him know we might be running up some big travel expenses. We both know what an ass he is. He got all red and rattled and said there was no way. That's when I went to Mr. Z."

  "Mr. Zollinger knows about this? What did he say?"

  "Well, you know about his new fiscal accountability program. All major expenditures have to be approved by him personally." Hal looked around the City Desk to make sure no one could overhear. "You haven't mentioned this story to anyone, have you?"

  "You know better than that."

  "Good." He leaned a little closer. "When I asked Melrose for the credit cards I didn't tell him why I needed them. I just told him how much I thought you would spend. He blew a breaker so I went upstairs to talk to Mr. Z. I laid out the story for him and he loved it. He absolutely loved it. He said we can write our own ticket. Of course Melrose probably hates me for going over his head, but it was the only way."

  Stephanie now knew why Hal suddenly had become so enthusiastic about the series. With the owner and publisher of the Trib behind it, Hal had nothing to lose and everything to gain. "So what did Melrose have to say when he found out you got approval?"

  "What could he say when his Uncle Artie gave the project his wholehearted blessing? But this doesn't mean you can go overboard, because I'm the one who'll drown if you do. No trips to Hawaii, you bozo." He took a sip of Cherry Coke. "But as far as Mr. Z's concerned, we can spend whatever it takes, within reason. I guess it goes without saying that you're not to breathe a word about the finances. Some of the people around here wouldn't take kindly to a relative newcomer being given carte blanche." Hal glanced at his appointment book. "I'm going to be gone most of the day, so you'll be on your own. I'll arrange for an office where you can have some privacy to make your calls."

  "Great," Stephanie replied, "but there's something else I want to talk to you about. When I was driving Weasel home Friday night he told me how much he would like to see the people in The Family again, and then it hit me. Why not?"

  "Why not what?"

  "Why can't he see them again? Hal, we could arrange to have everyone profiled in the series come back to L.A. for a weekend."

  Stephanie looked at her boss for some sort of response. He took a long drag on his cigarette but said nothing.

  "We could get them together for a Family reunion after we run the series," she continued, "and then do something on their feelings upon seeing one another again. You know the readers would eat it up. What do you say?"

  He crushed out his cigarette and stared somewhere off to Stephanie's left. Finally his eyes reconnected with hers. "I like it, Steph, I like it a lot...but it has major problems."

  "Such as?"

  "Travel expenses, accommodations, security, public relations--I could go on and on. Writing a series about them is one thing, but reuniting them is something entirely different. I just don't know. I need some time to think about it, okay?"

  "What's there to think about? You know damn well it's a winner."

  "Look, Steph, I'll take it upstairs and see what they say. The decision wouldn't be mine, anyway, but I'll do what I can."

  Chapter 13

  Stephanie studied the list of names in front of her. Twenty minutes had passed since Hal had left her in the managing editor's office and she had not yet made the first call. Her eyes shifted to the Rolodex on the corner of the desk. She wanted a distraction, anything to keep her from having to call the person on the top of her list.

  Timidity wasn't normally a part of her character. She thought back to how, as a graduate student at Columbia, she had surprised her professors by landing an exclusive interview with Bernardo Guzzo. At the time, Guzzo was under investigation by the U.S. Attorney's office on charges ranging from tax evasion to jury tampering. One evening she waited several hours for him to arrive at Sardi's, his favorite restaurant. Once he and his party were seated, Stephanie marched up to the aging crime boss and boldly requested an interview. All conversation at the table stopped. Guzzo stared at her and she stared back. The old Sicilian's lips slowly parted in an approving smile, and he invited her to join him for dinner. Two hours later Stephanie left with a story that resulted in her first byline. And until his death the following spring, Bernardo Guzzo regularly sent lovely bouquets to, as he put it, "the gutsiest little broad in New York City."

  Stephanie reached for the phone and placed the first call.

  "The Klaaban Group," a voice answered.

  "May I please speak with William Fenton?" Stephanie asked.

  "One moment."

  Fenton was an architect with a firm that had designed many of the newer office buildings in and around L.A. The book listed Fenton's Family nickname as Zombie.

  "This is Bill Fenton."

  "Mr. Fenton, my name is Stephanie Kenyon. I'm a reporter with the Tribune."

  "What can I do for you?"

  "I'm doing a story about former members of Mother Earth's Family and you--"

  "What does that have to do with me?"

  "Well, I understand you were once in The Family and--"

  "You're nuts. I don't have to listen to this nonsense. Good-bye."

  "Mr. Fenton, please, hear me out." Stephanie squeezed the phone cord. "I know you were in The Family. I don't mean to upset you, I just want to ask you a few questions."

  "All right, all right," Fenton broke in, "but no questions. No one knows about that. No one. I've never even told my wife." There were several seconds of silence. "I could lose everything if it ever got out. If you print any of this, so help me I'll sue you for every cent you have."

  "Mr. Fenton. I won't do anything without your permission. Just let me explain."

  "You don't need to explain anything. I mean what I said." His voice cracked. "Look, I know you're just doing your job, but please do it somewhere else. I'm begging you. That part of my life is behind me. Please leave me alone."

  "All right, Mr. Fenton. This will be the end of it. You have my word. Goodbye." Stephanie hung up the phone.

  She crumpled back into the chair. She thought of how happy William Fenton must be with his successful career, his wife and children, and his home in Huntington Beach. She wondered if he would now feel forever haunted because a stranger knew his most closely-guarded secret. Normally she gave no quarter to those who basked in the limelight, those who openly invited celebrity and then stumbled. The stories that posed the greatest dilemma for her were the ones that required her to take ordinary people and air the most intimate details of t
heir lives for the readers of the Los Angeles Tribune. She knew the next call would be even harder to make.

  Stephanie leafed through the desk calendar. Each page carried a brief inspirational message, courtesy of the Brooks Calendar Company of Milwaukee. She kept flipping pages, several at a time. She stopped when she came to August 23rd, her father's birthday. The message printed on the page read "success and achievement come to those who persevere." It was the very kind of advice her father had given her so often through the years. She smiled to herself and looked at the second name on her list. She picked up the phone and punched the buttons.

  "Terrell and Associates. May I help you?"

  "Yes," Stephanie replied. "Barbara Moran, please."

  "One moment, please."

  Stephanie found herself holding her breath as she waited.

  "This is Barbara Moran."

  "Ms. Moran, my name is Stephanie Kenyon. I'm a reporter with the L.A. Tribune. Do you have a few minutes to talk?"

  "You'll probably want to speak with Kevin Dougherty. He has the quickest access to the indices."

  "No, actually, I want to speak with you...about a personal matter." She paused. "I'm doing a story on former members of Mother Earth's Family who have gone on to become successful." There was a moment of silence.

  "Go on, I'm listening."

  "I've learned that many of the young people who were part of The Family were normal, middle-class kids who were looking for a way to do something to save the environment. They had nothing to do with the murders and no idea they were going to happen, but because they lived in a commune and had a radical lifestyle, people branded them criminal as well. I want to let the public know about the other side of The Family, about the kids who grew up to be success stories--such as yourself. If you're interested, I would like to arrange an interview. Fictitious names would be used, of course, so there would be no way you could be identified."

  "You realize this is quite a jolt."

  "I'm sure it is, Ms. Moran. And I don't want you to feel threatened in any way. If you decide to decline, no one will ever know I contacted you."

  "I find it really strange that you would call, because this is something that's bothered me for many years. You're so right about most of the people in The Family being decent kids. The majority of us just wanted to do something to help protect our natural resources. It was wrong for everyone to be maligned because of the actions of a few, but that is exactly what happened. I've wanted to set the record straight myself, but I had no idea how to go about it. I guess I was afraid, too. That was a very difficult period in my life, and it is still painful to think about it. But I agree with you, the whole story should be told."

  Although they had never met, Stephanie sensed that Barbara Moran was someone she would like to get to know. "Then you'll consent to an interview?"

  "Why not. When would you like to get together?"

  They agreed to meet the next day at three o'clock. From that point on, Stephanie's attitude changed. Not all of her calls went well--several people reacted even more strongly than Bill Fenton--but it didn't seem to matter. By the time she stopped for lunch she had called sixteen people. Of that number, seven agreed to interviews, a much higher percentage than she had expected.

  As she was leaving to go to the cafeteria she nearly bumped into Adrian Mathers.

  "Managing editor now, eh?" Mathers nodded at the office she had just left. "Spielman goes on vacation and already you're taking over."

  "Today Spielman's job, tomorrow yours, Adrian."

  "Well, since I'm still employed today, how about letting me buy you lunch?"

  "I'd love to, but I've got a million calls to make this afternoon. I'm just going to grab a sandwich and bring it back here. Thanks anyway."

  "Rejected again." Mathers placed an index finger against his temple. He cocked the invisible gun and grimaced. "I just hope you'll be able to live with yourself."

  "Adrian, all I ask is that you don't do it around me. This is a new blouse."

  After thirty-four calls, fifteen ex-members of The Family had agreed to interviews. At that point Stephanie decided to stop. That left only four people on her list. She felt sure that out of fifteen interviews she could come up with ten people whose lives were interesting enough to profile in the series. If not, she could always go back and try the other four.

  When she finished the calls she returned to her own desk to type up her itinerary. By six she was exhausted. She locked her notes in the file drawer and pushed the day's clutter into a pile at the corner of her desk. She had one more call to make before heading for home.

  "Maintenance, Sulewski."

  "Joe, this is Stephanie Kenyon from the fifth floor. When you get a chance, could you check out my keyboard? One of the keys keeps sticking."

  "Which one, Stephanie?"

  "The X."

  Chapter 14

  The smell of new thermoplastic filled the inside of the car. Frank Satterfield knew his son would go crazy when he opened the brown molded guitar case. For months Kurt had been learning chords on the old Stella that had been Satterfield's when he was young, and the boy's fingers bore thick callouses from forcing the strings down on the fingerboard of the guitar's bowed neck. Kurt would spend hours nestled next to the stereo, straining to imitate Brian Adams' guitar licks and frowning each time the instrument refused to respond to his touch. Satterfield knew the smooth action of the new Ovation would be a welcome change.

  He switched off the ignition and gazed at the stucco split-level. Memories of a time when things were different crept into his thoughts. It didn't seem all that long ago that he had carried his newborn son through the front door and into the nursery furnished with the crib and dresser Satterfield had built himself. His eyes wandered to the side yard where he would set up the playpen and strum the old Stella, singing silly songs to Kurt who laughed every time his dad did, even though he was too young to understand the lyrics. In the corner of the yard was the yucca where one year Satterfield hid the Easter egg that wasn't found until the middle of May. In his mind he saw Kurt riding his bike for the first time without training wheels, and he remembered the exact spot where he had let go and watched his son pedal off down the sidewalk.

  "Frank?" The front screen door opened and Satterfield's ex-wife stepped out. "Are you coming in?"

  "Yeah, give me a second." He started to take the guitar but instead left it on the floor behind the front seat.

  "How are you, Sheila?" he asked when he reached the porch. They gave each other a quick hug.

  "Tired." She offered a faint smile. "I've been so busy at the boutique I'm ready to drop. I had two girls quit last week so I've had to help out on the floor until I can find someone else. Come on in."

  Satterfield followed her inside. He noticed a pile of clothes in the hallway and a stack of dishes on the kitchen counter. He pulled out a chair at the table and sat down. "Where's the birthday boy?"

  "Down at Stevie's. I told him I'd call when you got here. Can I get you a beer?"

  "Yeah, thanks." Satterfield watched Sheila as she got the beer out of the refrigerator and poured it into a mug. Since their breakup fifteen months before, she had proven herself to be a pretty decent ex-wife, he thought. Like many women married to cops, she had never gotten used to the erratic work hours, the time away from home, and the daily dangers of police work. It hadn't taken either of them long to realize she wasn't meant to be a cop's wife.

  "I forgot to frost the mugs," Sheila said as she handed him the beer. "Sorry."

  "Don't worry about it. What's for dinner?"

  "Hamburgers on the grill, I guess. That's what Kurt always wants on his birthday. I hope I have everything." Sheila opened the bread drawer. "I have enough buns."

  "Have you started the grill yet?"

  "No, it's still in the garage. I haven't had the time to get it ready. Do you mind?"

  "No problem. Do you have charcoal and lighter fluid?"

  "I don't know what's out there. Why
don't you go see?"

  Satterfield looked at her. "Is something eating at you tonight? You act like you're in another dimension." He could tell she was upset. Even when she was busy at her boutique she always kept the house spotless and planned dinner down to the last detail.

  "Look, I'm sorry. I've just had a bad week. I'll be okay. If you'll take care of the grill, I'll call Kurt."

  Satterfield went to the garage and rummaged through the clutter until he found half a bag of charcoal and a nearly empty bottle of lighter fluid. He looked over at the weight bench in the corner. The plastic upholstery was split and the once-shiny steel bar resting on the uprights was speckled with rust. He had bought the bench and weight set as a rookie cop twelve years ago, and in less than a year he had added thirty pounds and several inches of muscle to his six-feet, one-inch frame. Although there was no room in his small apartment for the bench, he had managed to stay solid from regular visits to the police gym. Satterfield was two years shy of forty, but he felt in the best shape of his life.

  He took the garden hoses off the grill and wheeled it around the lawn mower to the center of the garage. The bottom of the grill was full of ashes and the cooking surface was caked with grease and bits of foil. He cleaned it as best he could in the time he had and rolled it out to the patio. The briquets were just beginning to turn white when Kurt came charging through the back door.

  "Dad! Dad!" He rushed to Satterfield and hugged him around the waist.

  "Happy birthday, Kurt." Satterfield squeezed him and patted him on the back.

  "Dad, you gotta come see what Stevie gave me. It's really neat."

  When they went inside, Sheila was forming the ground chuck into patties. Kurt dashed off to his room and came back with a dark wooden device that looked like an aerodynamic butterfly.