by Lia Matera
My own mid-career crisis, running off for several months to the wilds of the Pacific Northwest, suddenly seemed sensible and tame. At least I’d gotten the bile out of my system, though it had cost me my savings. At least I wasn’t forever immortalized in a porn video.
“How did you hear about him?”
“I had an insurance defense case where one of the claimants became a devotee. We were tracking her, trying to show that her range of movement was greater than she claimed. And we found she was suddenly taking physics and optics and computer classes, going to salons, I guess you’d call them—the old-fashioned French kind—at Mike’s house. She apprenticed at a hologram gallery. Her whole style of life changed. Intellectually, I mean—not in any way pertinent to the insurance claim. But I became curious, it was such a shift in focus.”
“Did you join Brother Mike at that point?”
“No. I took mental note. Whenever I heard anything about him, I followed up on it. About six months later, I heard him speak. He was still living down here. I introduced myself, and we started having the most magnificent conversations. You know what it’s like being around lawyers all the time—gourmet cooking and tame little kayak trips and effete chat. Mike brought me back into the world, with all-night rap sessions, very smart people discussing philosophy and science. Real stuff. Exactly what I was hungry for.”
The same story Margaret had told. And why not? I was hungry for those things, too. I’d felt it when Dan Crosetti came to me with principles that had cost him every material and most physical comforts.
I looked around Gretchen Miller’s office, and wondered how her new philosophy had changed her life. Her work life had remained the same, certainly. And the only glimpse I’d had of her off-hours life had chilled me.
“This was almost two years ago,” she continued. “It seems much, much longer because it changed my whole orientation.”
“If it’s a matter of exposing yourself to new ideas, why not just do that? Why do you need a— Well, what do you call him? Your guru? Your master?”
“Teacher,” she answered matter-of-factly. “Or spiritual brother. That’s why we call him Brother. He didn’t choose that title, his followers pretty much foisted it on him. He wanted us to call him Mike, but to most people it didn’t feel right. We know him to be a more philosophically evolved person than we are—and certainly a much more brilliant and scientifically gifted person. We’d have called him Father, if he’d have put up with it.”
“Tell me more about the philosophy, about the group.”
“We basically believe in a holographic universe. That’s a rather popular theory right now—just step one in our thinking. Have you heard of it?”
“No.”
“Well, let’s see. How do I explain it? Did you know that holograms are projected by shining a laser through a piece of holographic film?”
“Go on.”
“Well, if you take a piece of film that has, say, a dog on it, and you cut the film in half, each half will project the entire image of the dog.”
“Hm.” I found that mildly interesting. Certainly not profound.
“It doesn’t matter how small you cut the pieces, each piece has the whole image encoded in it. That’s the result—somehow—of interference patterns when a single beam of light is split and manipulated to hit the photographed object from different angles. Anyway, the point is, if the theory is correct—and it’s the only theory that takes quantum physics into account—then the entire universe, including us, is like the holographic film. Everything everywhere has the complete image encoded into it.”
“Sounds like high-tech Buddhism.”
“In a way. It’s really about tapping into more, getting glimmers of the all. You can put an infinite number of images on one piece of holographic film. The one projected depends on the angle of the laser. Reality is like that. We’re finding tools to project some of the other things encoded on the film. Does that make sense?”
“It’s as much detail as I need.” I watched her, utterly calm and cool in her braid-trimmed suit. Even her philosophy seemed compatible with a lawyer’s willingness to marshal facts, do research, construct a theory. No Eastern religion would satisfy that desire to proceed scientifically.
“Any fool can see our culture’s ways of thinking about reality don’t account even for our own experiences. We all experience telepathy, luck, synchronicities, memories of events we haven’t seen, déjà vu, and on and on.” She shrugged. “It’s interesting to wonder about the mechanics of it all. I’d never even heard of quantum physics before I met Mike.”
“How does the sexuality stuff fit in?”
“There are certain things about us as a species that seem universal. The seven deadly sins, that kind of thing. Our emotional behavior patterns, which he calls ‘energies.’ We observe them, play them out, see where they take us. We’re trying to figure out what they tell us about the image on the film. About reality in a broader sense.”
“I’ve seen the videos on the, um, sexual energies. So I’ve heard a bit of the theory.”
“We also have workshops and salons on a huge range of topics—from Maya to Macintoshes. I’ve never met anyone as knowledgeable or as unhampered and intuitive in his thinking as Mike.”
“What made you decide to participate in the sexual sessions? If you don’t mind my asking.”
She looked out the window. “That’s one of my issues.”
“What do you mean?”
Her color deepened. I felt myself flush in response. She wasn’t my client. And this was personal stuff.
“Well, Laura, here’s my agenda. I would like to try to keep this from coming out about me. But I used to hook in college. It’s how I made my tuition.”
It was all I could do not to blurt out my astonishment. More than that, my inability to believe it.
A sheltered girl from a small town, that’s what I still was, I guess. Or maybe a privileged creature with a prissy belief that only “they” were prostitutes—tawdry blue-collar women without the brains to keep from being used. A different class.
“I had mixed feelings about the making and especially the distributing of the tapes,” she said, meeting my eye now. “Because whatever you think about it on a moral level, prostitution’s a shit job—no protection for the worker whatsoever. And all the hookers I knew who were doing movies, well, they were basically hooking on film. Some of them got very bad deals. Once they were in the studio, there was no one looking out for them. And it’s very difficult work. If you don’t keep yourself psyched, you can’t do it. And there’s that voice in you all the time telling you you’re just letting yourself be abused.” She paused, sighing. “But then, I used to feel that way working in department stores, too: pushed around by a bunch of officious, powder-cheeked women who wanted me to just love being part of the Nordstrom family.” Her fists clenched. “I’m not always the happiest little camper. But anyway, the point is that I have a lot of sexual issues. It’s what Mike calls my defining field. It’s what I needed to work on.”
“You talk about hookers in porn films feeling used. You don’t feel that way about the video you made?” I was having trouble maintaining eye contact. I kept remembering the expression on her face as the older man thrust into her.
“No. Because I wasn’t pretending to like it. I was reacting honestly. And in public. To me”—her face looked damp now, with a waxy whiteness around the eyes and down her fine-boned nose—“it was a kind of catharsis, I guess. A way of taking back the pretending. Does that make sense?”
She watched me so earnestly that I wished I could say yes.
8
“Well, now,” Sandy finally said. He’d been standing over my restaurant table looking down at me for maybe a minute. “You look fine.”
I let him seat himself across from me. If I rose, we’d have to embrace. I didn’t know how either of us fel
t about that. I said, “I’m glad to see you.”
He nodded, glancing away.
A waiter joined us, and we ordered our usual drinks, vodka iced for me and a Belgian ale for him.
“Did you get a chance to see any of the videos?” I’d left him a telephone message last night listing the titles.
“Couple of ‘em, yeah. I called around. They’re available a lot of places.” He raised his brows, causing fine, sand-colored hair to fan over his forehead. His eyes were bluer than I remembered, his face just as lean and lined.
“I’m glad you saw them. But it looks like I’m switching sides. The person who was going to be my client changed her mind. Assuming she has no problems with it, I might go to work for the guru himself. He wants to retain me.”
“How’d he hear about you?” His posture was a little stiff, his tone cool.
“A woman I knew in law school is one of the guru’s people. Gretchen Miller. She works for Millet, Wray and Weissel. She’s also in the videos.”
The hint of a grin. “And people think lawyers are stuffy.”
“My ex-client, Margaret, talked to her last night. When Gretchen found out Margaret wasn’t going to use me, she called me.”
“Isn’t that a little … incestuous?”
“I’m not sure it’s going to work. I’ll need something in writing from Margaret. And I need to know there wasn’t any duress involved.”
“You mean like they tell her she’s going to hell if she sues them?”
“Basically. But I don’t think that’s it. Margaret recognized herself on the video, but I didn’t. And I was watching for her.”
A quick frown told me he didn’t understand.
“Do you know what reimaging is, Sandy?”
“Reimaging? Don’t think so.”
“The guru changes people’s facial expressions—and I don’t know what else—using computer animation techniques. So devotees who don’t want to be recognized won’t be.”
“Slick.” Sandy was unusually impassive.
“Apparently he gets very elaborate in the non-distributed videos. He puts in auras and things.”
Sandy accepted his beer from the waiter. I flicked the lime wedge off my glass rim.
“In terms of legal ramifications, it’s new stuff, Sandy. Interesting, maybe ground-breaking. Remember the tribe that wouldn’t let anthropologists photograph them? They believed photographs stole their souls? You know people are going to have problems with being reimaged. Someone’s bound to sue over it pretty soon.” I didn’t add, If I’m lucky.
“Ain’t that the way of the world. You changed sides fast enough.”
I took a sip of my vodka. Spent a moment examining the restaurant’s artwork, urban updates of Matisse. I didn’t want to be goaded.
His tone softened. “I haven’t been to this joint in almost a year.” Since you went away, he didn’t need to add.
The place was purely my taste. Bright colors and scoured wood, California cuisine, killer salads. Sandy would have gone for heavy Italian food someplace dark and airless.
“It could turn into a hell of a case, Sandy. I’m lucky to get this client.” If it bothers you that I feel that way, tell me now. If you can’t work with me, tell me now.
“Yuh,” he said. “I can see it’s up your alley. What’s the plan?”
“The first thing is, get a retainer from him. Then work out a fee arrangement with you.” I watched him butter a triangle of flatbread. “If you’re amenable.”
His brows sank, and he toyed with his butter knife. “My gut reaction? It’s going to be hard to work something out. Sayres has me on that mega-retainer, so I don’t mind putting in a lot of time for him. But by the hour, you could definitely find a more cost-effective fellow.”
“I’ll get us separate billing, if you’re more comfortable with that. The guru’s organization can pay you directly.”
He shrugged, chewing the bread. “Not that I think you can’t afford me. Just that you could get the same service at a better price.”
So we were business associates now. Just friendly enough for him to try to save me a buck.
“What’s your point, Sandy?”
“That you’re not on Sayres’s dime anymore.”
“Yeah, and I’m not on his chain, either.” I could feel my face grow hot.
“I heard you threw Sayres out yesterday.” A grin stretched Sandy’s face. I felt a rush of feeling for him, seeing it.
“I guess I did. He was posturing for his clients, acting like my kind uncle. And the whole time he was telling me he wouldn’t have given me a reference if I’d asked for one.”
“No shit?” He looked genuinely surprised.
“He basically accused me of killing Doron.”
Sandy shook his head. “You must have got that part wrong. He knows better than that.”
I sat back while the waiter placed my salad in front of me. Warm Brie over baby greens and walnuts. No use looking for anything like it in the small town I’d left behind.
I watched Sandy scowl at his plate. He didn’t get it, never had: Steve Sayres hated me. Doron was Daddy, and Daddy always liked me best. That’s what it came down to, really.
“Did you think I was being hysterical? I don’t usually throw people out of my office.” I stabbed my arugula.
“I know you’ve got no use for Steve.”
“There’s a reason for that.” Sayres—men in general—enjoyed a presumption of rational behavior. Every time I got martial, people agreed I was a bitch. “I don’t want to spoil my lunch talking about Sayres.”
I watched him slice into a thick calzone, certainly the heaviest thing on the menu.
He said, “So what do you know about this guru?”
“Almost nothing. I know his name: Michael Hover, AKA Brother. What do you know about him?”
“Well, I can’t say too much without getting into who my client was and the nuts and bolts of that case. But I can tell you he’s got his own little bitty island up in the San Juan chain off Washington State. A good percentage of his followers are lawyers and other professionals. They throw cash at him like you wouldn’t believe. He’s got so much gift income, he pays almost no taxes.”
I listened with interest. “It sounds like he’s found the right peg for the right hole. From what I’ve heard lately, lawyers are dying to get ‘real.’“
He nodded. “Lawyers I work for are feeling pretty damn sorry for themselves. More than I ever noticed in the past.”
Sandy had been doing investigations for law firms since 1968, when he’d quit the Los Angeles police force. Maybe the general dissatisfaction involved more than length of time in practice. Maybe the nature of lawyering had changed. Maybe the profession had grown rapacious in the demands it made on its practitioners.
“So he’s got a lot of lawyers in his pocket?” I prompted.
“And his hands in a lot of lawyers’ pockets, yeah. He’s into gadgets. He’s not into politics. He doesn’t have his people out door-to-door like Jim Jones did.”
“Lawyers wouldn’t go door-to-door.” I couldn’t imagine Margaret or Gretchen soliciting support. “It’s a class thing. Haute versus petit bourgeois.”
“Could be. It keeps his following small. He’s got no one recruiting. But he does a lot of informal-meeting kind of stuff—people sitting around talking, or at least him talking at people. And sixties throwback—encounter groups, sex groups, all that. That’s about all I know about him. That isn’t specific to my other case.”
“Interesting.” I watched him eat the calzone. He looked a little grumpy. I remembered him telling me once that he liked his pizza right-side out—when he could get it without fenneled duck sausage and artichoke hearts.
“I’m going to a rally at The Back Door tonight. One of the dancers used to be a big fish in Brother’s pond.
Now she’s contacted a lawyer. She’s asking for masters of his videos. I thought I’d check her out.” I blissed out on my salad.
“Alone?”
“Well, it’s a rally. Some kind of anti-censorship thing. But I thought I’d stick around for the show afterward. I want to see this person perform. It’s not clear yet what her complaint is. It may be the reimaging. She’s a porn star, so presumably she’d want to be recognized. The rally gets me down there, so I might as well see what she does.”
With a sigh, Sandy put his fork down. “I’ve been in there on other cases, Laura. You can’t go alone. Not if you stay for the regular show.”
“Why not?”
“You’re going to be the only woman in there wearing clothes.”
“I realize that.”
“Well, I guess you’re one lawyer can’t complain her job’s full of the same-old same old.” He rubbed his thumb over his chin as if checking for stubble. “I could go with you.”
“I can’t pay for your time unless the guru becomes a client. That might happen by the end of the workday—I’ll let you know. But regardless, I can’t pay you till I get the retainer.”
“I’ll go on spec.” He shrugged. “Worse ways to spend an evening, I guess. Got to be better than Idomeneo.”
He hadn’t liked the opera I’d dragged him to a few years ago.
I reached my hand across the table. “Missed you, Sandy.”
And I wish I’d listened to you: wish I’d kept my relationship with Hal familial. We’d have been friends now, Hal and I. Instead, he was gone, and I didn’t know if I’d see him again. The bastard, without even saying good-bye.
