Face Value

by Lia Matera

  The camera began revolving around the circle, focusing on genitals. Though they lacked the shaved grooming seen in girlie magazines, they didn’t reflect the variety found in locker rooms, either.

  Soon the tape urged the devotees to “play,” and they reached under their cushions for an array of sex toys, most of which were far outside my experience. I moved closer to the screen.

  As the tape wound on, I was struck by two things. One was the film quality. Shot with a video camera, it didn’t have the professional distance of 35 millimeter. It was as cozy as a home movie, and that was disconcerting, as if a family picnic had swerved into debauchery. On the other hand, the color was extraordinary, more vivid and crisper than the usual faded home video.

  The other thing I noticed was that not everyone in the group was aroused. Six of the eight apparently were. They watched the others, arched their backs, reached out for one another, licked their lips for camera close-ups.

  But two women seemed to be in trouble. One turned away from the camera. What could be seen of her face betrayed no fear or pain, but the way she held herself disturbed me. Sometimes she trembled. Insertion seemed difficult.

  Another woman looked ecstatic, but the men on either side of her seemed to be holding her down.

  The voice on the tape commanded the group to “share the energy, mingle the waves,” and suddenly some devotees were stroking and licking others, eliciting embarrassed-sounding cries from them.

  What followed was an orgy for some, maybe a gang rape for the others. It was difficult to decide whether the two women had grown more relaxed. They definitely did not try to stop it or to leave. Facially, they seemed to enjoy what they were doing. That might have been a function of their commitment to the philosophy. I hoped it wasn’t the result of computer retouching.

  This tape, the first in the series, continued to be clumsily amateurish. Attempts to zoom in on coupled organs and questing tongues had produced a headache-inducing blur of limbs in the way. The video lasted thirty-some minutes, probably edited from an hour or two of activity.

  I spread the movie boxes on the floor in front of me. The one I’d seen was titled Orgy of Energy. Others bore titles like The Energy of Enslavement, The Energy of Pain, The Energy of the Tantras, Male Energy, The Energy of Women, The Energy of Obedience, The Energy of Narcissism.

  I found, by fast-forwarding through them, that whatever the theme, the format was fairly uniform: Brother’s voice preaching a gospel of sexuality coupled with some pretext for exploring a certain kind of “energy.”

  I was surprised to find so little variety of body type. There were few sags and stretch marks visible, few saddlebags and blemishes. Like other “erotic” films I’d seen, these tracked lowest-common-denominator fantasies featuring people who, for the most part, might have stepped off a television set. They left me feeling as if I’d watched a particularly embarrassing episode of The Newlywed Game. They made me want to distance myself from mass culture, to flee into the artistic refinement of classic novels and old jazz.

  In spite of his quantum-physics sermonizing, Brother’s videos seemed standard fare.

  I could understand Margaret’s distress. If the films had been initially reimaged to make a spiritual point, it must be disconcerting to see them repackaged as garden-variety pornography.

  It was in the final video of the set, The Energy of Honest Sex, that I encountered the image most shocking to me. The focus was on stream-of-consciousness communication during intercourse. One of the participants had been a law-school classmate of mine. She grimaced as a much older man entered her from behind. She told him he repulsed her. She told him she hated it. And she looked as if she meant it.

  Others in the group rambled about their fantasies. They seemed to be having a fine time.

  I had been watching for Margaret Lenin. I hadn’t expected to see anyone else I knew. And because it was the one instance of someone unequivocally not enjoying the act, it seemed ghastly.

  I’d expected some version of this feeling when I saw my client. But I didn’t see her, not in any of the tapes. I checked the list of available videos against the ones I’d rented. According to my list, I had all of them.

  Margaret Lenin had recognized herself on one of these. But I hadn’t.

  I didn’t want to watch them again. Tomorrow, I’d ask her which tape. The title would remind me of the content. I’d review it later.

  Right now, I wanted to soak in a tub until I felt clean.

  5

  When I reached my office the next morning, I already had a phone message from Margaret Lenin. I returned her call.

  “Did you see the tapes? Did you see me?” Her voice was tight.

  “I fast-forwarded through parts. Which one were you in?” The smell of wine and cheese lingered in my office, mingling with the chemical smell of industrial carpet. Although my door was closed, I could hear the blond lawyer across the hall shouting at someone.

  “The first one. Orgy.”

  “I started with that one. I saw the whole thing. But I …” I thought about the tape; couldn’t believe any of those women had been Margaret. None had seemed so thin, for one thing. “Are you sure you’re in that one?”

  “Yes. All he did was open my eyes wider. And make my lips a little … You really didn’t recognize me?”

  “No. I thought you said he hadn’t reimaged it much.”

  “Compared to the major stuff he did with the film before we saw it, it was nothing. I didn’t even notice he’d done anything the first time I watched it. I guess since I knew it was me …”

  “I really didn’t recognize you.” I was ambivalent about asking which woman she’d been. I supposed the tape had made her look heavier. Maybe she’d been one of the reluctant two. “I find it hard to believe I wouldn’t recognize your hair, at least.”

  “I don’t curl the ends when I’m off work.”

  “But the changes you describe are so small. Do you think people who’ve seen your body…?” This was not my ideal conversation.

  “Those people wouldn’t care. And I don’t care about them knowing. I guess what I’m thinking … if you really, truly didn’t recognize me …”

  I waited. If she was dropping the case, she’d do it without help from me.

  “Maybe I should just leave it alone, Laura. I was talking to a friend about it last night. I’ll have trouble proving damages if nobody’s likely to recognize me. And the main thing the judge will think is, why did she bring a lawsuit and call attention to this if she didn’t want to be recognized?”

  “On the other hand, your image has been used in a commercial pornographic film. You have every right to want to stop distribution.” But that was as naive as it was true. “I’m not recommending a lawsuit. I’m just saying you probably have a viable cause of action. Whether it’s in your best interests to pursue it, I don’t know. Only you can make that decision. I can call you back—”

  “No need.” Her voice was low with relief. “It doesn’t make sense to go on with it. Not if you can’t tell it’s me. I’m just sorry I wasted your time.”

  Sorry she’d let an acquaintance into a very private aspect of her life.

  “I understand, Margaret. But why don’t you take some time to think about it? Maybe watch the tape again and see how you feel.”

  “No.” Her voice said: I need this to be over, I don’t want to think about it anymore. “Let’s just drop it.”

  I wondered if she’d return to the group, keep following her guru. I wanted to urge her to buy a new car, take a long trip; find a more usual expression of her dissatisfaction.

  “Naturally, bill me for the time you spent watching the tapes.”

  “Yes. Shall I send my statement to your home address?”

  She rattled it off, sounding relieved. No one at work would have to know.

  Or so we thought.

>   6

  I wouldn’t have canceled my lunch date with Sandy regardless. As it turned out, I had good reason to keep it.

  Gretchen Miller, the law-school classmate I’d seen on last night’s video, phoned me. She asked me to come by her office. I knew it had something to do with Brother and the videos and Margaret Lenin. It had to.

  On the phone, she would only say, “It’s about a potential case.”

  I checked in across the hall before leaving. Hyerdahl’s firm was decorated in multi-cultural art. African masks hung beside Latin American tapestries. One wall was covered with a sincere rain-forest mural. It gave the office a toasty earnestness.

  I told our shared secretary that I’d be out until afternoon. She grinned. I’d been averaging one phone call a day. She seemed confident in her ability to handle the volume.

  As I turned, I nearly collided with Pat Frankel, who was storming into the office. She stopped, looking up at me.

  “You’ve got to take a referral.” She scowled, but not, I thought, at me. She ran her fingers through her chin-length hair, brushed off her grape-colored suit.

  “From you?”

  “Yes. Did you hear a crazy lady in the hall a while ago?”

  “I heard you.”

  A quick laugh. “I meant the referral. I was going to open your door and push her in just to get rid of her. She won’t take no for an answer. I argued with her all the way downstairs. She’s so high on sanctimony, she acts like the only moral thing for me to do is take her case. God. I’ll owe you if you take her. I told her you’d represented Dan Crosetti. That makes you politically correct enough for her.”

  “This is the person you were telling me about, the one you won’t represent because you have baggage?”

  “My whiner; that’s right. I’m being hideously unfair. She’s okay, she just punches my buttons. You want to go out for coffee or something?” She seemed in better humor now, her preppily sunburned face relaxed.

  “I have a meeting.” I regretted it. For the first time in months, I felt a stirring of sociability. “What’s the whiner’s name? In case she calls.”

  “Megan Carter. You don’t know her, do you? If she doesn’t call you, I’ll feel guilty about gratuitously bad-mouthing her.”

  “No, I don’t know her. If she calls, I’ll let you know.”

  “So I can feel safely rid of her.” She grinned. “It’s good having you across the hall. We have a surplus of weirdos. We’ll send some your way.”

  I hoped she wasn’t kidding.

  7

  “Ms. Miller will see you now,” the receptionist told me. She watched me as I rose from a leather couch. “Third door on the left.”

  I wondered if she knew what we’d be discussing. Did she know she could rent a tape of her boss bending over for a guru? Gretchen greeted me at her office door. “Laura.” She extended her long hand to be shaken. She was beautifully dressed in a braid-trimmed emerald suit that hugged her tall, very slender body. Her hair was earlobe-length on one side, moussed into a wave. On the other, it was razored to a near crew cut. It took a long neck and delicate bone structure to carry off the style. On her, it looked smashing.

  “How are you, Gretchen?” I asked the question, but I’d already drawn a few conclusions. She worked for a small but respected firm. She was gorgeously groomed and greeted me without embarrassment. She was okay.

  “It’s nice to see you again, Laura. I’ve thought of you several times, thought about giving you a call.”

  She waved me into a turquoise suede chair. Behind her desk, a floor-to-ceiling window framed a bit of financial-district tower. If she stood close to the glass and looked down, she’d have a street view of potted flowers and a landmark black lump sculpture nicknamed “The Banker’s Heart.” My old office was close by.

  Gretchen sat opposite me on a love seat, tugging her skirt over her knee. I tried to lose my mental image of her unclothed. If I’d seen her at the health club, I wouldn’t dwell on it.

  “I’d like to send a case your way, Laura. It involves a man named Michael Hover. He’s known as Brother Mike, or just Brother. He’s not a traditional guru, but he does have a following—maybe three, four hundred people in this area.” There was no trace of a blush on her porcelain, lightly freckled cheeks. But she had to know Margaret Lenin had consulted me.

  “I do know about him, Gretchen. You must realize that.”

  “You mean Margaret. I know she came to you. I also know she decided not to hire you. And I think that’s smart: she’s really not recognizable. She’d be defeating her own purpose.”

  “How did you find out about Margaret?”

  “She told us.” Gretchen looked so elegant, the “us” might have been royal.

  “Told your group?”

  “Told me and another devotee. Last night. We watched the tape with her. Talked about Mike.” I noticed she didn’t call him Brother. “She’d never have gone through with suing him, Laura. He’d never give her reason. He’d never have left her recognizable, not if it bothered her.”

  “He left you recognizable, Gretchen.” I felt as if I’d thrown a grenade.

  She didn’t flinch. She smiled slightly. “But that’s okay with me.”

  I tried to relax. The topic was making me tense, almost hostile. Gretchen had done nothing to occasion it. I had to remind myself of that.

  “The ironic thing is,” she continued, “if I’d known you were back in town—and free from Steve Sayres—I’d have called you right away.” Her thin, lavendered lips pursed. “Corporate lawyers wouldn’t be right for us, even if they wanted a case like this. And a lot of lawyers, especially First Amendment types, have agendas. Some would be nervous about the anti-sex feminist opposition, some would want to turn this into an us-versus-them political thing.”

  “Turn what?”

  “Margaret’s not the only one. The ironic, truly crazy thing is, her partner—did she tell you about Arabella?”

  “She didn’t refer to anyone as her partner.”

  “Non-monogamous, perhaps, but still … Anyway, Mike’s been contacted by Arabella’s attorney. Apparently she’s thinking about suing.” She squinted at her window, looking a little confused.

  “On the same grounds?”

  “Arabella’s not recognizable on the videos either, but that’s because she’s a porn star. She’d have eclipsed the point of the films, which is to make people think about their sexuality in a different way.” Gretchen leaned toward me. “It’s the fact of having one’s image changed. We’re finding it disturbs people. We’re not sure what Arabella’s particular problem is. She may think the tapes would have enhanced her career if they hadn’t been reimaged. Her attorney requested unretouched masters.”

  I knew with uncomplicated immediacy that I liked the case, that I wanted it. The changing of video images: it was new ground. The perfect launch for my office.

  “Are you authorized to speak for— What should I call him?”

  Her smile widened; fondly, I thought. “Mike, Mike Hover. Or Brother. It won’t matter to him. But yes. He authorized me to retain a lawyer for him. I can’t represent him, since I’m in one of the videos. The same holds true for some of the other lawyers in our group.”

  “I would need to have it in writing from Margaret that she chooses not to proceed. I also learned some things from her that were privileged. I’d need to have it in writing that to the extent those facts are available to me from other sources, I can use them in spite of the lawyer-client privilege.” I still wasn’t covering my ass well enough. It would be a close call if Margaret raised a stink later. I should contact someone at the State Bar, run this by them. If the guru’s retainer proved sufficient, maybe I’d contract-in a clerk to do that.

  “All right. Why don’t you talk to Margaret, then get back to me? Assuming you get her okay, would the case interest you?”
>
  “Yes.”

  “Then I have no problem with discussing it with you this morning.”

  That was ballsy. I might still end up representing Margaret in a suit against the guru. I’d be able to use anything she told me, use it against him.

  But Gretchen was a lawyer, she knew that. She was obviously confident Margaret would oblige. Maybe that implied duress. It bothered me.

  On the other hand, it would do Margaret no harm for me to learn what I could. I’d have to be careful, that’s all. I was on shaky ethical ground.

  “If you’d like to tell me what Mike Hover has in mind, that’s up to you. You know I don’t have the documents I need from Margaret yet.”

  “I know. I just feel that you’d be best for this. I know you from law school, I know who you are. And I know the quality of your work by reputation. You’re not beholden to a bunch of stuffy partners, and you’ve got very little else on your plate right now. You’re perfect.” She sat back. “You’re a gift.”

  I had to smile. I’d never been called that before.

  “How did you get involved with the group?” I wanted this to work. In spite of the videos, in spite of my anti-master bias, I wanted this case. It was novel, it would be interesting. It would very likely get some press, make people aware of my new office, people other than bankers. It could affect the direction of my practice.

  She examined her manicured nails. “I think initially it grew out of what this profession does to you. At least, it coincided with my making partner.” She glanced at me, the hint of an ironic smile on her lips. “I don’t know how it’s been for you; you’ve had some truly spectacular cases. But I think if you took a poll, you’d find a lot of lawyers ready to bail out.”

  It disturbed me to hear her echo Margaret. It sounded almost concerted. But then, both women had been in the same situation for roughly the same number of years. Long enough to burn out, to want more.

  She smoothed her skirt. “I’m a partner now. It has the obvious rewards. It also has some major liabilities. I try to make the best of it. Occasionally a case engages my interest, but … About the time I made partner, I realized I didn’t have anything else going for me. I’d gotten what I wanted, but I’d pretty much given up my free time, everything I used to be interested in that required a time commitment. Including an interior life.” She anchored her strawberry hair behind a pearled ear on the unrazored side. “Anyway, I tried some of the usual stuff—you should see my antiques. And then I heard Mike speak.”