We were five minutes into my turn when Ralph Faust came on with a breaking news report. I leaned forward from my seat on the office rug to hear every word. Casey was making labels and never looked up at the TV.
Demonstrators keeping candlelight vigil at Parker Center, police headquarters, have been for the most part orderly. Earlier some bottles were reportedly thrown at the front of the building after the Reverend Jimmy Lee Cook, in addressing the crowd – estimated to be between two and three hundred – suggested that if Charles Conklin were not freed immediately that it might be time to go back to the streets to give a message to the LAPD.
At a separate news conference in his office, District Attorney Marovich called for an investigation into the records of Detectives Mike Flint and Jerry Kelsey, identified as the chief investigating officers assigned to the Wyatt Johnson shooting. A recent survey by the police department identified the forty officers with the worst records of abuse and civilian complaints. Neither Flint nor Kelsey appears on the list.
Casey’s head snapped up. “What did he say about Mike?”
“Junk,” I said. I punched up MTV.
Casey gave me a quick, wise appraisal. “Why did you change the channel? They’re talking about Mike.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” I said.
“Oh, right,” she said, reaching for the remote. “You mean, you don’t want me to hear it.”
SNN came back on the screen, running taped footage of the earlier interview Ralph had done with Marovich, Miller, and Burgess. Casey sat rapt this time, listening.
When the Reverend Burgess said, again, that Mike scared false testimony from two child witnesses, Casey threw down her pen in disgust. “The fat guy said Mike threatened someone.”
“Casey, those people will say anything to get their names on the news. Look at them. You have a reporter desperate to keep his ratings, a politician running for office, an attorney looking for her thirty-percent cut of a potentially huge civil suit, and a pseudo-reverend sitting there with the address where you can send donations scrolling across his chest. Who do you trust, them, or Mike?”
“Don’t get mad,” she said. “It’s like Mike always says, ‘Who you gonna believe? Me, or your own lyin’ eyes?’ “
“You little wiseacre.” I gave her a gentle shove and made a grab for the remote, but her arms are longer than mine. She held it beyond my grasp so I couldn’t change from the news.
Burgess still dominated the spot. Mr. Marovich listened to us, understood the implications of our findings right away. He has such confidence that the original investigation was tainted that he persuaded one of the city’s big-dollar law firms to represent Charles Conklin on a pro bono basis. Without charging a retainer, Jennifer Miller will lead the defense.
I crawled over and switched off the television. “Listen up,” I said. “And be warned. If the D.A. succeeds in blowing this into a bigger issue, there will be press everywhere looking for juicy bits. If anyone comes near you, you keep your mouth shut and run.”
I knew she had a sassy retort brewing, but the telephone rang and interrupted her.
“Another thing,” I said, scrambling for the phone. “Don’t give out anything on the phone.”
I said, “Hello.”
Bad news travels fast, especially when it travels by satellite. I had picked up the receiver with a sense of dread. I expected to hear on the other end an obscene caller, a local news person looking for fresh dirt, a concerned but nosy friend. What I got was my ex. And he was in high dudgeon.
“What the hell is going on out there?” Scotty ranted. “I saw the news. I want you to put Casey on a plane for Denver right now, Maggie, get her out of that overheated environment.”
“Hello, Scotty,” I said. “How are the wife and kids?”
“Merely contemplating the implications of what I just heard is like a knife through my heart.”
“Through your what?” I didn’t think he heard me.
“It’s one thing if you want to destroy your reputation,” he roared. “But to leave Casey vulnerable to the storm of criticism this mess will generate is absolutely unconscionable.”
“How’s the golf game?”
“The first time I hear my daughter’s name linked in public in association with that reprobate Flint, I will haul you into court. With custody comes certain obligations, Maggie, that I seriously doubt you are fulfilling.”
“Heard any good jokes?” I said calmly. Casey was watching me closely. “I heard one. What do you call a lawyer who can tie his own shoes?”
There was a pregnant silence.
“Gifted,” I said. “I thought you might like to try that one at the office tomorrow. Let me know if anyone gets it.”
“Are you insane?” He wasn’t shouting any more so it was safe to pass him on to Casey.
“Yes, everything is fine.” I smiled at Casey. “Casey had school orientation today. Here, I’ll let her tell you all about it.”
I handed the receiver to Casey. She covered the mouthpiece and said to me, “I could hear every word he said.”
I whispered, “And he can tie his own shoes.”
She took a breath. “Hi, Dad.”
After that opening, Casey did a lot of listening, with a few “Uh huhs” and “uh uhs” wedged in, because she had no alternative other than hanging up. I could hear Scotty, but I didn’t listen hard enough to discern what he was saying. I didn’t need to. During our twelve years of marriage, I heard everything I ever wanted to hear from him. And more.
I went back to work cataloguing tapes, stowing them away. Now and then I glanced up at Casey to make sure she was all right. I watched her expression change from bored resignation to anger.
I said, “Remind him how much the call is costing.”
She grimaced, took a breath, and said very loudly, “Dad! Will you listen to me?”
Apparently he wouldn’t listen. She tried again.
“You don’t know anything about it, Dad.” Her assertiveness made me proud. “You don’t know anything about Mike, either. Those people are just distorting everything for their own purposes.”
She listened to some flak, then cut in again.
“You’re wrong, Dad. Anyway, who are you gonna believe? Me, or your own lyin’ eyes?” She slammed down the receiver. I saw right away that the slam had been dramatics as much as frustration. She wasn’t crying and that was a hopeful sign.
“You okay?” I asked.
“I’m okay.” She stretched, reached up and touched the rim of the ceiling light fixture with her fingertips. “Dad’s the one with the problem, Mom. I think he’s jealous.”
An odd idea. “Jealous of what?” I asked.
“Mike.”
An odd idea that grew on me. Scott MacGowen had waited almost thirty minutes after our divorce was final before he married the lovely young Linda. Now she was pregnant with their second child. Pregnancy can be rough on men. Especially when they’re over forty years old and facing a second go-round on the child-raising process that they hadn’t much liked the first time. Too confining, according to old Scotty. Very messy.
I reached up and tickled the hard midsection of my one and only, nearly grown offspring, feeling a haughty smugness.
You make your bed, you lie in it. Four more years and Casey would be an adult, my daily mother work essentially finished. In four more years, in the matter of children, old Scotty would have barely climbed between the sheets.
“You ready to go home?” I asked. “Take a swim with me?”
She shrugged. “I’d rather go for pizza.”
“Fine,” I said. I didn’t feel like eating, but I didn’t feel like going straight home, either. While we straightened the room and turned out lights, I dialed Guido.
“Mpfh?” he said, picking up on the third ring.
“Sorry to wake you,” I said. “You could have left the machine on. I just wanted to remind you we’re going out to Central Juvenile Hall in the morning. I’ll be by before nine.”