I’m not saying that Pence is to blame for what happened. He couldn’t have predicted the future and he didn’t mean to offer anyone a convenient narrative. But, in retrospect—pardon me for dredging up that tired saying about hindsight having 20/20 vision—his blundering ego may have started the ball rolling last spring, the day I met JJ for the first time.
It is springtime, seven months before Frank and I go to Iowa for Thanksgiving. Pence has called a special session of the city council. He’s invited the public and the press. All members of the Kenilworth Police Department, including me, are encouraged to attend. In Pence-speak, “encouraged” means show up because he’ll be taking names. He cloaked the subject of his announcement in secrecy, responding with a Cheshire Cat smile to any questions that “all will be revealed.” Pence likes drama and will do anything to get his name in the paper, provided the press is positive. If it isn’t, then he is as tight lipped as a double agent. I sit in back of the council chambers looking at my watch. I’m supposed to meet Frank at an opening reception for his photography teacher’s new exhibition.
I’ve been hearing about this woman for months. He’s described her as an extraordinary photographer and a wonderful teacher. Innovative, daring, inspiring, and—I took note—exceptionally beautiful. Frank is passionate about his photography. I’m relieved that he has something absorbing in his life besides his remodeling business and me. We’re quarreling less about the hours I spend at work and how often I change plans at the last minute because police departments are open 24/7. He’s known this from the time we met. I think he hopes that when we get married, my priorities will change. They won’t. Police psychologists don’t have nine-to-five jobs. When cops work, we work.
This is a red-carpet affair. The mayor is here, as is the city council. Chief Pence greets them one by one, his silver hair gleaming in the overhead lights. He’s a handsome man if you like your men looking like they stepped off the cover of GQ. I don’t know much about men’s clothes, but if I totaled up what Pence spent on his outfit, it would equal the down payment on a small car. I prefer shaggy men like Frank, who orders his jeans and work shirts online by the half dozen. He can look spiffy when he wants to, but mostly he just looks touchable. There’s nothing touchable about Pence or his wife, Jean, who is sitting in the front row, coiffed, buffed, and color-coordinated from head to toe. Not a hair out of place. They are a matched pair, age-adjusted versions of Ken and Barbie.
Cops, dispatchers, and records clerks file into the chambers, some in uniform, some in jeans and t-shirts. No one looks happy with this mandated show of support for the chief when they could be at home with their families, catching up on their sleep, or out catching crooks. I see Manny and his wife, Lupe, sitting in the front row. He’s wearing a suit and tie. Lupe is wearing a dress and high heels, her tiny figure snapped back into shape after having a baby. I’m very fond of Manny and take pleasure in watching him mature on the job. He’s always been a quiet, serious young man, who kept his own counsel, even when it meant standing up to popular opinion or to the chief. He was never one of those rookies who tried too hard to fit in and be one of the boys. He’s well liked and served a term as president of the Kenilworth Police Association. I haven’t seen much of him recently and I wonder why he isn’t sitting with his buddies.
The mayor taps the microphone, asks everyone to take their seats, thanks us for coming in at the last minute, and promises that we will be rewarded for our efforts by being the first to hear about an innovative new police program. He hands the microphone to Chief Pence who’s been smiling and nodding at people in the audience. As soon as he takes the mike, Pence’s smile disappears. He sucks in his cheeks, furrows his brow, and takes a deep breath.
“The announcement I have to make this evening concerns crimes that are perpetrated against our most vulnerable citizens. Our children. Day after day, the citizens of Kenilworth go about their daily activities feeling safe, thanks to the dedicated employees of my police department.” There is a smattering of applause. “Silicon Valley is the birthplace of a technological innovation, so profound that it has changed the world. It was here, in our backyard, that the microcomputer revolution began.” He looks at his notes. “Hardware, software, data storage, networking, data sharing and delivery—I have to ask my ten-year-old neighbor what these things mean.” He waits for a laugh that doesn’t come. “Our lives have been significantly and positively affected by technology. We’ve all come to depend upon our electronic gadgets.” He waves his cell phone in the air so everyone can see it.
“But there is a dark side, too. One that is difficult to understand and impossible to tolerate. These same technological advances that enrich our lives have enabled pedophiles to distribute child pornography around the world with the click of a mouse. Pedophiles trade images the way you and I used to trade baseball cards. They use chat rooms to lure unsuspecting children away from the safety of their homes. Every month, sixty thousand new images are added to these websites. Sixty thousand. Think of it.” He looks at the audience, gauging his effect.
“In 1998, the United States Department of Justice initiated a task force to provide state and local law enforcement with the tools to catch distributors of child pornography and stop sexual predators who solicit child victims through the Internet.”
“Has something happened to a Kenilworth child?” someone in the audience shouts. Everyone looks around to see who is talking out of turn.
“No. And I am determined it will never happen here. Not on my watch.” His wife starts to applaud and stops when she realizes no one else is joining her. “But, forewarned is forearmed. Therefore, ten months ago, in a trial run, I committed staff from KPD to join the county Internet Crimes Against Children task force, part-time. Something my predecessors were unable or unwilling to do. Officer Ochoa, would you stand please and face the audience.” Manny stands up and turns toward us. A red blotch seeps up his neck. He waves once, turns around, and sits down. “That moving blur was Officer Manuel Ochoa. Known to most of us as Manny. He is a dedicated young officer, who in his three years on the department has shown himself to be a hardworking, effective professional. When I asked for a volunteer to join the task force, he was the first to respond.”
No wonder I haven’t seen much of him.
“Today I am making this trial effort public and official and I am increasing Officer Ochoa’s hours to full-time.” There is another smattering of applause. “This will be a major commitment for Officer Ochoa and for his wife, Lupe, as well.” He smiles at Lupe and bows slightly in a mock show of gratitude. “Even being assigned part-time to the task force, his hours have been long and irregular. Pedophiles peddle their wares in all time zones. Assigning Manny to work full-time on the task force means other officers will have to work harder and longer to fill in. No doubt this will increase the overtime budget. But I believe, with all my heart, that it’s a small price to pay for keeping our children safe.” He pauses to let this sink in. “Now, are there any questions?”
Hands fly in the air. There is a lot of shouting. I don’t have time to stay for the answers although I have plenty of questions of my own. The first one being, why all the secrecy around the task force? Money’s tight. If no crime has been committed, how is Pence going to justify an increase in overtime? And most irritating of all, why didn’t Pence consult me before appointing Manny? Investigating child pornography is one of the most stressful assignments in law enforcement. No one should be placed in a stressful specialty without first being screened. Manny has a small child of his own. That brings everything closer. Makes him vulnerable to over-identifying with the victims, losing whatever emotional Kevlar he needs to investigate these horrendous crimes. Had I known what was going on, had Pence told me, I could have helped innoculate Manny, prepared him to deal with the stress. Strategized with him and Lupe both about how best to minimize the emotional contagion that comes with such an assignment.
My cell phone vibrates with a reminder that the reception fo
r Frank’s teacher starts in twenty minutes. I want to stick around and talk to Manny and Lupe. Before I’m even out of my seat, it vibrates again courtesy of the damn calendar app Frank installed after telling me my Day Runner was so retro it made me look out of touch.
“We need to keep up,” he had said. “We live in Silicon Valley.”
Frank is waiting for me at the front door of the gallery. He’s leaning against the wall like a cowboy. All he needs are boots and a ten-gallon hat. His eyes flicker back and forth, looking for me, anticipating that I’ll be late. The minute he sees me, he breaks into a grin. He’s a truly good guy. I’m lucky to have found him. Pickings are slim for women in their fifties. After Mark and I divorced, I figured I’d be single the rest of my life. A more appealing alternative than pairing up with the men my girlfriends were meeting online, most of whom were depressed widowers with bad teeth and a penchant for golf clothes with contrast stitching. I debated signing up for an online dating program but couldn’t think of how to describe myself in five sentences. I got as far as “thick in the waist, not in the head” before I gave up. That was when my colleague Gary introduced me to Frank who was remodeling his house.
“Right on time. Thanks.” Frank bends down to kiss me. He’s at least a foot taller than I am. “JJ’s photos will blow your mind. They are amazing. You’ve never seen anything like them before.” I wonder if anyone says “blow your mind” anymore, but decide not to ask. “Controversial. Cutting edge.” He takes me by the elbow and steers me into the gallery.
In an instant I move from the warm summer air and the dimly lit night into an air-conditioned cavern with refrigerator white walls and ceilings. It’s so bright my eyes water. A woman with neon red hair and a Celtic chain tattooed on her arm offers me a glass of champagne. I take it. Then a skinny young man with a partially shaved head holds a tray of stuffed mushrooms and kale chips under my nose. I refuse.
“This way.” Frank has to yell at me to be heard over the din. We move through the crowd to a wide doorway leading to a large room filled with a veritable rainbow of people. Once again California’s lure of bottomless opportunity and fortune has sucked people from around the globe. Spilled them out in a place once covered in apricot, plum, cherry, and almond orchards, now covered with condominiums and sprawling corporate campuses. More than half of all Silicon Valley start-ups have a founder who was born outside the United States and more than half of the people who work for them in science and engineering were born in another country. A large percentage of whom are standing in front of me munching on kale chips.
I shoulder my way to the back of the big room where the lighting is softer. My eyes adjust again. People are walking around, talking in whispers, heads together, eyes gauging each other’s reactions. I move to the nearest image. Three children with pouting, sultry faces cling together in a wilting triangle. They are naked.
I move to another. A single child, perhaps a prepubescent girl with an amorphous sexuality, lies facedown on a bed of wet leaves. Some are randomly stuck to her body. She could be dead; she could be sleeping. Next to her is a waist-up portrait of a stick-thin boy. He looks directly at the camera, his eyes blazing with the angry intensity of a powerful secret self. He appears furious with the photographer. She has interrupted a private moment. Exposed his puny little body to the world. The photos are gorgeous, evocative, drawing me in and repelling me at the same moment.
“What do you think?” Franks whispers.
“I don’t know what to think.”
“Do you like them?”
“I honestly don’t know. They’re erotic. Bordering on pornographic.”
“Sensual,” he says. “Not sexual. These are works of art, carefully composed. The lighting is fabulous. The images are crisp. Look at the photo of the boy. Look at how she blurs the background so your eye is drawn to his face. Masterful. Or this one.” He takes my hand and walks me across the room to a photo of a young girl, perhaps three years old. She is sitting on a log in the middle of a stream, her knees pulled up to her chest, looking down at the water swirling in circles under her. “If this was a painting, it would be hanging in the Met.”
“She’s naked.”
“So is Venus rising out of that clam shell. And all those naked cherubs in the Italian masterpieces. And the Odalisque. I’ve gotten interested in art since I’ve been studying photography with JJ. Now I see the naked form everywhere. Imogen Cunningham, Georgia O’Keefe, they all photographed naked women.”
“Women, not children.”
“How are these images any different from what you see every day on television? Victoria Secret’s ads, Sports Illustrated swim-wear edition . . .”
“Those are adults. They can give informed consent to being photographed.”
“Do you think she forced these kids to pose?”
“I have no idea. Kids are pliable. Under the right circumstances they’ll do anything. Whose children are they?”
“My brother’s.” JoAnn Juliette’s voice is soft and smoky. Her presence so light I never sensed her standing behind us until she spoke. She is as described, breathtakingly beautiful, tall and willowy with high cheek bones and a wide mouth. Her long dark brown hair, parted off-center, hangs over her shoulder in a thick braid. She is wearing wide black pants, a kimono top hand-painted with birds and butterflies, and long earrings that swing when she moves.
“JJ. This is my friend, Dot.” I notice he doesn’t say ‘fiancée.’
“Dot. This is JJ.”
We shake hands. Hers is warm and firm.
She loops her arm over Frank’s shoulder. “He’s my favorite student. Came late to the game, but he works very hard and shows considerable talent.” I wonder if she’d feel as positive about him if he weren’t so positive about her.
“Your brother’s children?” I say.
“I wouldn’t presume to take pictures of children I didn’t know. I lived with my brother, his wife, and their kids on the family farm where we both grew up. We ran around unsupervised and usually unclothed when we were children. His kids are lucky to do the same. Most children today can’t walk to the bus without a parental escort.” She shudders and shakes her head. It’s a small movement. Nothing dramatic. “His kids were like my own. Until I had one of my own.”
“Is your child in this exhibit?”
“Chrissy? Of course.” She loops her left arm through mine and steers me across the room. Walking next to her, her perfect form emulating the unreal ideal foisted on us less-than-perfect women, I am suddenly self-conscious, wondering if Frank, walking behind us, is making comparisons.
Chrissy’s photo is hanging by itself. She looks to be about two years old. Her arms are at her sides and she’s dangling a toy dog by the leg—it’s head drags on the ground. She is naked, wearing only a white headband with a large floppy bow. Her face is turned and she looks over one shoulder into the camera as though asking, Who am I? What am I? Am I a child or a woman or the woman in a child? Her eyes are huge and her skin flawless. I have no children of my own, but the image is so powerful I can literally feel the sensual appeal of Chrissy’s smooth skin, imagine how it would be to cover her plump, pillowing body with kisses.
“I wanted her to wear something else, but she wouldn’t have it.” JJ’s voice shakes me from my reverie.
“And the pose?” I ask.
“She posed herself. I took about fifty shots. This is the one she chose.”
“Isn’t she self-conscious?”
“About her nakedness? Not at all. It’s a natural state. She’s quite comfortable with her body.”
Frank leans in. “Dot’s a psychologist. She likes to analyze things.”
Something shifts in JJ’s eyes. “Really? Wish I had known. I spoke to several psychologists before I mounted this show. And I had the children meet with a child therapist. I wanted to be sure that I wasn’t doing any harm. None of the psychologists I consulted were concerned. They felt the older children understood the project and were cooperating o
f their own free will with the full understanding that they had veto power over any images.”
A small group of people press in on us, eager for JJ’s attention. She seems not to notice.
“I even consulted a world-famous expert on pedophilia, Dr. Charles M. Randall.”
“Did you? I studied with Dr. Randall when I was in graduate school. He was one of my favorite professors. I haven’t seen him in years.”
“He thought a few of my photos might be of interest to pedophiles. At the same time, he said some people, given their predilections, are aroused by anything. The only way to avoid them was to stop taking pictures altogether. I loved his attitude. He warned me not to be put off by law enforcement types or right-wing zealots, religious or otherwise, because my photos were gorgeous. Rather than charge me his usual consulting fee, he asked for a photo instead.”
That’s the Dr. Randall I remember. Warm, kind, and avuncular. The stereotypical absentminded professor, bumbling and rumpled. An iconoclast who valued common sense and decency over small-mindedness. He had a cynical view of his fellow psychologists as fussy, self-inflated busybodies who touted psychology as the answer to the world’s problems. In particular, he disdained people like me, clinical psychologists, who charged money for what he said used to be given freely and known as friendship. He urged us to work with people who had real problems or caused real trouble, like pedophiles. I could recite his rant by heart. Clinicians were Freudian wannabes with whining, sniveling clients for whom the best therapy would be the admonition to grow up and get a life, followed by a kick in the butt. A point he once gleefully illustrated in class by hoisting his leg in the air, dislodging a disk in his back that sent him to the hospital for a week.
The Fifth Reflection Page 2
