Braided Gold

by Glen Roylance

  “I went through her things with a fine-tooth comb, and bingo!” Scranton leaned forward towards Paul, a grin of self-satisfaction filling his face. “Della keeps good financial records, which is reasonable – she has lots of money, more money than a “kept” woman would normally have at her disposal! Her bank statements show sizable deposits on a monthly basis, money that probably comes from Fairclough. But periodically over the last several years there have been large deposits, like forty and fifty grand each – payoffs I assume!”

  “Payoffs for what?” Scranton had captured Paul’s imagination.

  “Be patient; it’s all coming. The little lady had a stash of notes, including names, addresses and phone numbers all neatly filed away. They were the trappings of a highly effective sting operation with Della acting as the front.”

  “You’re talking about a sting operation against physicians?”

  “That I am,” said Scranton. “This is the modus operandi: Della takes a temporary apartment in the city of choice and begins to visit a series of doctors, pretending to be an expectant mother. Sooner or later she finds a physician who is willing to talk to her about the possibility of an abortion – no examination at this point, just talk. Then comes her star performance as a con artist, one that worked at least eight times. In her visit with the gullible doctor she makes it very clear that money is no object, with cash in advance if necessary, but she shows reluctance out of fear – lots of internal conflict about having an abortion – that kind of thing.

  Then the biggie: She asks if there is someone she might talk to who has been through it all and would be willing to answer some very personal questions to allay her fears. She presents a pathetic picture – a young woman getting started in a strange city without friends. And now she makes her final push. If there were a single girl in similar circumstances who would be willing to call her at the doctor’s request – to speak to her on a confidential basis – oh, how she would wish for that kind of reassurance before undergoing an exam or making any final decisions about whether or not to go ahead with things. She leaves her address and phone number, carefully explaining that it is a new listing, just in case the doctor becomes suspicious and decides to check things out.

  “Their assumptions are that a doctor doing illegal abortions primarily for profit will be quite willing to accommodate a sweet but wealthy young woman’s request, even though it is a little out of the ordinary. Once Della receives the awaited phone call from the former patient, it is a matter of building enough confidence to justify a face-to-face meeting with the other woman – the one who has recently had her abortion from the targeted doctor. And then as they meet, the big pitch comes – sign an affidavit of her having received an abortion in exchange for big money – an offer that is too good to pass up. There is assurance that the affidavit will never be used publicly, just as leverage against the doctor – no personal risk involved.”

  Scranton held Paul spellbound. “I’m with you,” he said. “You’re talking about a blackmail scheme.”

  “And a very profitable scheme.”

  “Go on,” said Paul. “Let’s hear the rest of it.”

  “Della meets with the doctor a second time but not as a helpless and frightened young woman. She shows her claws and threatens to expose the worried doctor to the authorities. The signed affidavit becomes the clincher. In conclusion, she casually mentions the presence of severe post-procedure medical complications being experienced by his patient and suggests that an attorney friend is willing to represent her in a malpractice suit. She explains that all of these unwanted problems can easily go away in exchange for a hefty sum of personal protection money.”

  The surprise in Paul’s expression was unmistakable. “And how did you put this all together?”

  “I spent some time playing blind man’s bluff with Rachael Klein, one of the women who signed an affidavit.”

  “What did it take to get her to open up?”

  “I know where the buttons are.”

  “The buttons?”

  “You have to push the right buttons to get people to spill their insides to you. Everybody’s got buttons. It’s just a matter of finding out what makes them tick inside.”

  Paul couldn’t help but be fascinated with Scranton. He was very good at what he did. “I told her I knew she was a conspirator in a case of blackmail against her physician and that if she cooperated with me I would see that she didn’t get hurt, that I had merely come to buy some information. I gave her a fistful of hundred dollar bills and told her I was a good guy, willing to pay to hear a bird sing its song. But I told her that one thing was certain – if she was unwilling to work with me I could make life very difficult for her. I got the whole thing on tape. You can do whatever you want with it.”

  Paul smiled at Scranton. He knew exactly what to do with the information.

  “There’s more backup in the envelope – audio tapes, copies of Della’s notes, damaging receipts; all that you need.”

  Scranton had indeed been busy. He now looked at his watch. For the first time in their short acquaintance he looked slightly businesslike. Zipping up the leather folder he had brought with him he said, “And now, Dr. Kirkham, if you’ll excuse me, I have a client waiting to see me. If you need any more information, give me a call.”

  In a moment Scranton was gone and Paul was left alone with the two large manila envelopes in his hands and a meal he had not yet touched. His mind raced as he contemplated the significance of this treasure trove of information.

  Balboa Park, one of the crown jewels of San Diego, had been a World’s Fair site several decades earlier. Its importance as a Southern California landmark was uncontested. The ornate architecture of its exhibition buildings portrayed a heavy Spanish influence, and its beautiful gardens provided the exquisite finishing touches to a place of retreat not far from the downtown area.

  In the vicinity, real-estate developers had recently constructed the Balboa Plaza, in the midst of much controversy. San Diego’s city planners were determined to keep the green area in and around Balboa Park free from commercial intrusions. There had been re-zoning requests and denials, appeals, hearings, and a good deal of hullabaloo that finally led to authorized, but limited use of a hilly prominence overlooking a portion of the park which would be used in the construction of an exclusive office building complex. Protective covenants were set in place to curb further construction of any kind, and the “Plaza,” backed by visionary entrepreneurs, was placed under rigid requirements to preserve the pristine flavor of the surrounding area.

  Several architectural designs were rejected until one of sufficient aesthetic grace cleared the final hurdle so far as a conditional use permit was concerned. Even before construction commenced, space in the prestigious Plaza had been apportioned to its important tenants. The roster had the appearance of a “who’s who” list for San Diego County. It was here that Julian Fairclough and his associate, Henry Archuleta, laid claim to several suites of offices as the nerve center of their highly touted law practice. The address alone made a definitive statement about their preeminence in the San Diego professional community.

  On this particular day several of Fairclough’s guests had arrived at the Plaza for a working luncheon. One of the Fairclough conference rooms extended to an open-air terrace, providing a spectacular view of the Park in the distance. Venture capital was the item for discussion. Offshore oil drilling – a big operation involving multiple riggings had been under discussion by this group for several months. The initial proposal was that Fairclough and his partner provide 51% of the backing and that Julian become president of the board of directors in a new company that would be an independent subsidiary of Exxon Oil. Some of the guests were seated at circular luncheon tables that had been set up on the terrace, and others were congregating around the large buffet table with its spread of catered food. All of them had one interest in common: money! Fairclough reigned as king in this prestigious group, methodically moving from table to tabl
e to exchange a bit of chitchat and good humor. Then came an unscheduled development, a distressing intrusion into the important wheeling and dealing scheduled for the afternoon.

  With noticeable timidity Fairclough’s personal secretary emerged from the conference room and came to his side on the terrace. Whispering, she said, “I’m sorry to have interrupted you, but there’s a very strange phone call for you. The man wouldn’t give me his name but was very insistent that I tell you he was waiting to speak with you. He said that it was very urgent and that it had to do with Mrs. Fairclough. He said he planned to go ahead and inform your wife of the arrangements with somebody by the name of Della, and he wanted to know if you had any objections.”

  Julian was visibly disturbed. “You say the man wouldn’t give his name?”

  “He said there was no need for that, and that he was certain you would want to talk with him.”

  “Yes, I’ll speak with him,” he said gravely. “Put the call through to my office phone. I’ll be there in a moment.”

  Julian caught his partner’s eye and motioned towards the conference room, then walked past the sliding glass doors that had been purposely left open and waited for his partner to break away from a raucous conversation with a Texas oilman who had been telling a funny story.

  “What’s the matter?” said Archuleta, as he and Julian stood alone in the conference room. He knew Julian well enough to discern that something had shaken him.

  “Something important has come up. I’ll need to slip away for a few minutes. Keep things going, will you?”

  “Anything serious?” asked Henry, reacting to his partner’s obvious distress.

  “It’s a personal matter. I just need a few minutes for a phone call. I’ll be right back,” and with that Julian hurried away, leaving his partner in charge and full of curiosity. He wondered what could be important enough to take Julian away from such a high-level business meeting where every moment and snatch of casual conversation was being so carefully orchestrated.

  Julian took the stairs to his office which was located directly above the conference room. It was spacious, finished in dark masculine woods and provided the same view as the terrace below. Part of the office and a bank of windows jutted out over the terrace. He sat at his desk and picked up the phone, his thoughts full of trouble.

  “Julian Fairclough,” he said, trying not to seem rattled.

  “It’s all over, my friend,” said the steely voice. “It’s all coming down.”

  “Who is this? What are you talking about?”

  “Too many secrets. That’ll do it every time.”

  “Look, I’m a busy man. I don’t have time to play games.”

  “You’ve got time for anything I want to say to you. In fact, you may not have time for much of anything else. I’m about ready to pull the plug on your empire. You see, I know all about your girlfriend up in Huntington Beach. Got some good photos of you and her during your last trip. Think your wife might be interested?”

  “Who is this?”

  “This is Santa Claus. I’ve got gifts for everybody – for your wife, the press, even the police. You know, lots of people would like to know about your fine abilities as a blackmailer, and I’ve got all the facts, my friend. You know you can pay people to say what you want them to say, but you can never pay them enough to keep their mouths shut. It’s all coming down, Julian, right on your head.”

  Julian fought to keep his composure. This unexpected conversation had him reeling. “How much,” he said. “How much do you want?”

  “I want it all, my friend, everything you’ve got. I want you to hurt until you can’t stand it anymore. That’s what I want.”

  Julian’s face was ashen, and there was a slight tremor in his hand as he held the phone to his ear. He was in a cold sweat, struggling to make sense of what his caller was saying.

  There was a long pause that had the desired effect upon Julian. He dared not hang up. Surely there was more. There had to be something more than just a sadistic threat. Then it came, and Julian felt a wave of relief sweep over him.

  “On the other hand, Julian, I’m full of the milk of human kindness. Even though you’re a phony, I could be persuaded to let you continue with the games you like to play. The world always has a need for another court jester.” Paul paused, again.

  At length Julian spoke, his voice was hoarse and he lacked that confidence he had spent years cultivating. “What is it? … What is it you want?”

  “Get your hunting dogs off me. See to it that my name is cleared at San Diego State. Either you fix the Board of Trustees to do the right thing or I’ll fix you, and as sure as you can hear my voice, I’ll do it. I’ll see to it that you don’t have a marriage or a future. I’ll see that your name becomes a laughing stock. And more than that, my friend, I’ll put you in jail!” And with that, Paul hung up the receiver.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Jerry Warren looked at his watch. It was nearly 10:30 p.m. He had waited quietly in the second-floor restroom of the Administration Building for over four hours. Despite the quiet of the hour, his pulse throbbed in his temples and all his senses were alive. He had remained in one of the restroom stalls as comings and goings dwindled and then, around 6 p.m., everything had become silent. The building had closed and the work force were well on their way towards home. Jerry knew that the cleaning crew was due at 11 p.m., but this night they would be unable to enter the building. No one would pass through the doors for the next several days; at least that was Jerry’s plan. And now, according to that plan, it was time to move.

  Quickly and noiselessly he entered the hallway outside the restroom. There was no one to be seen in the pale illumination of the two fluorescent night-lights, one at each end of the long hallway. He took the stairs, several at a time, to the fourth floor and began to systematically sweep through the building all the way to the basement level where, to his dismay, he found light emerging from a suite of offices. Someone was still at work in the Data Processing Center.

  Jerry quickly crept back up the stairs and made his way to the building’s main entrance where he pushed a panic bar on one of the doors. As it swished open, he placed two fingers between his lips and blew a shrill whistle. A group of students milling about in front of the building immediately turned their attention to Jerry and, in response to this prearranged signal, began to move in his direction. They looked like construction workers reporting for work. Two of them carried tool chests while others carried spools of wire, chains, and lengths of rope. Still others carried coolers and grocery sacks, presumably packed with food. The untidy crew quickly filed through the doors which had earlier been locked from the outside but now were being held open from the inside.

  There were no weapons to be seen, but clearly the Administration Building was under siege, to be held by student demonstrators in defiance of the President, and as a symbolic statement to all who would be involved the next morning when the highly publicized student strike would go into effect. Jerry now began barking orders and soon students were busily securing the four ground floor entrances to the building. With precision each of the doors was made completely dysfunctional, wired or roped shut so that it would take more than keys to gain admission. One lone door in the main entryway was secured with a chain and a padlock so that it could be opened quickly and easily if necessary.

  The commandeering of the Administration Building had not been an afterthought in Jerry’s plans, but rather, was central to his concept of a general campus strike. The plans and necessary preparations had been held to a close few with whom Jerry surrounded himself. These were likeminded in their militant ambitions – ambitions that, oddly enough, paraded under the peace sign that symbolized the activities of the extreme student left. These were the friends who came to Jerry’s parties, the ones who helped with the publication of “The Student Voice.” These were the ones who belonged to the inner core of students driven by fierce ideology. To a man they were quite willing to sacrifice time and com
fort, as well as their means, in implementing what they perceived to be an emerging new order of things.

  Their inflammatory language was laced with generous references to love and peace, which they believed to be impeded by a materialistic world living a “soulless” existence where morality and ethics were riddled with hypocrisy. They saw capitalism as the embodiment of economic selfishness, stepping in cadence with the drum beat of the military-industrial complex. They envisioned a form of happiness growing out of untrammeled personal freedom where the need to slavishly conform to society’s expectations had been overturned in favor of a more simplified lifestyle.

  They believed that the realization of these utopian dreams required the dismantling of conventional norms and standards, thus bequeathing to each individual the right to be a law unto himself. These revolutionaries were involved in a formidable movement that fed on a strange blend of anger and love, determined idealism and “laissez-faire” living.

  Once the entrances to the building had been secured Jerry and four of his friends addressed the problem in the Data Processing Center where Jan Ridgeway was working against an impossible deadline. The registrar’s office was expecting the data summary of student enrollment trends and university growth projections by tomorrow morning. Following a careful review by the administrative staff, this data would go to the Campus Publication Division for printing and subsequent distribution to the Board of Trustees. The package of information would become a primary reference document for the State Legislature as it appropriated an annual budget for San Diego State. The project had been beset with delays and complications, creating a work crisis for Jan at this juncture. He and his staff had been busily involved with data input since early morning, and now he and his lead secretary were overseeing the final computer runs. They had both reconciled themselves to working throughout the night.